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Her Convenient Husband's Return

Page 21

by Eleanor Webster

Munson went to another cupboard, producing the paints.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ren said. ‘And I will have to thank Mrs Cridge. Oh, and bring flowers as well.’

  ‘Flowers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any particular type of flowers?’

  ‘Colourful ones.’

  ‘Yes, my lord, colourful flowers.’

  Ren started to mix the paints. Even though his left arm hurt with the movement, he could not stop. The smell of turpentine scented the room. He loved the smell, he thought, as he pulled out his old easel, the movement both ungainly and painful.

  With the easel set up and the paints ready, he rang the bell impatiently.

  ‘Where are the flowers?’ he demanded upon Munson’s reappearance.

  ‘I did not know the flowers were urgent. I just sent out one of the maids.’

  ‘Of course they are. How am I going to paint them, if they are not here? Tell the girl to hurry up,’ he said irritably.

  ‘Yes, my lord. I will bring them immediately.’

  Munson brought daffodils, bright yellow blooms, with leaves glistening with water droplets.

  Edmund had liked daffodils. With care, Ren placed the vase on the table, before rummaging through the storage cupboard to pull out the atlas he and Edmund had used.

  He ran his fingers over the soft leather and then opened it. It smelled dusty. Ren smiled. He remembered how they would look at a random page, studying the contours of the land, the sea and the rivers, long winding, zig-zagging snakes. They’d pretend they were adventurers. Together, they had scaled high mountain peaks and taken tiny boats across open oceans.

  Carefully, he placed the atlas beside the vase and then with equal care he mixed the colours. He needed just the right shade, a golden, sunshiny yellow that would create a wonderful contrast with the muted grey of the atlas cover.

  He picked up the paintbrush. He dabbed the bristles into the paint. The bright yellow was vibrant against the tips of his brush as he ran it over the canvas in a slash of brilliant colour. The smell of the paint, the feel of the brush in his hand, the rustle of the bristles against the canvas sent a bolt of joy through him. He did not care that painting reminded him of his parentage.

  He needed this. He needed to paint. It was a deep, all-consuming, abiding need.

  * * *

  When he had finished the daffodils, he looked through the window at the garden. In summer, it used to be so beautiful. It had been a fragrant place, resplendent with colour and filled with blooms: hydrangeas, roses, pansies, geraniums, petunias...

  A thought struck him. He turned from the window. Nanny had always kept a looking glass on the chest of drawers. The top was empty, but he found it soon enough, stored in the top drawer. He picked it up and set it on a table. Then, slowly and with care, he stood before it, studying the image of his own face. He looked, he thought, older than his years. Lines bracketed his mouth. His chin was still bruised and purple from the attack and his expression remained guarded, slightly hostile and with an unwillingness to allow the expression of random emotion.

  A tiny scar marked his chin where the boys at school had tripped him so that he had fallen down the stairs. The shadows under his eyes had doubtless begun all those years ago when they’d short-sheeted his bed or in the mornings when they had hidden his clothes and he had been flogged by the masters for being late.

  Eventually, he’d taken up boxing.

  But he’d lost himself.

  Carefully, he mixed the paints again. He added reds, yellows and whites, dabbing and combining to create the right skin tone, slightly swarthy. Then, with equal care, he started to outline his facial features, his eyes, the aquiline nose which as a child had seemed too big for his face, but which he had now grown into. He added also straight dark brows, the angular cheekbones and the dark sweep of hair, stark against his skin.

  The face in the mirror was that of a hard man, but the image he was creating also showed more: a conglomeration of the child, the artist, the adolescent and the survivor.

  He had lost one identify, but this did not mean that he could not forge another.

  Even after he had finished the brush work, he sat for long moments, studying the painting. Finally, he stood and washed out his brushes.

  * * *

  Ren rode with care. The roads were still muddy and he had no desire to exhaust or injure himself or his mount. Indeed, he felt somewhat like a fugitive having escaped the premises and the well-meaning care of Munson and Mrs Ross.

  He went directly to Graham Hill where he was met by Arnold at the stable. He dismounted cautiously, anxious not to reopen the wound, and then headed from the stable across Graham Hill’s well-manicured park.

  The size of the house always struck him in comparison to Allington. The latter offered more comfort. Graham Hill was larger, with its impressive front entrance, vaulted ceilings and marble floor.

  ‘Her ladyship is in the study,’ Dobson explained, as Ren entered.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He strode forward, pushing open the door.

  ‘Beth, we need to talk—’

  He pulled short. She was not alone. Jamie sat on the other side of the fireplace. He looked tired and appeared dirty. He had a scratch on his cheek and his trousers were splattered with mud.

  ‘Jamie, are you well?’ Ren asked.

  ‘Yes, I haven’t had as much as a cold for eighteen months. I would like to more closely examine this and determine if any foods might protect one against minor illnesses.’

  ‘No, I meant—I wanted—I need to talk to my wife.’

  Beth angled herself to him. He noted a conflicting mix of emotions flicker across her countenance. ‘Hello, Ren,’ she said.

  ‘Excellent,’ Jamie said. ‘In fact, I am glad you are both here.’

  ‘No, I meant—I would like to talk to Beth.’

  ‘We have established that. As you can see, Beth is present, allowing you to converse. However, I need to also talk to you and this opportunity to talk to you together will save me time.’

  ‘Right,’ Ren said. He sat. He had no desire to learn about gypsum, manure or even the breeding qualities of cattle, but it seemed that he would speak to Beth privately more promptly if he listened.

  ‘I have investigated your assault. Indeed, the perpetrators are being questioned by the constabulary.’

  ‘You what?’

  Ren gaped. If Jamie had said that he had taken up ballroom dancing, he could not have been more surprised.

  ‘It was the Duke, of course.’

  ‘It was? How do you know that? Isn’t he in London?’ Ren said.

  ‘Deduction and the scientific method.’

  ‘Please, Jamie,’ Beth intervened. ‘You are going to have to explain things better. I am as flummoxed as Ren. I had no idea you were even investigating. I mean, you usually only study agriculture.’

  ‘Agriculture is preferable. However, I realised that our village constable lacked the mental capacity to properly investigate the attack.’

  ‘So you chose to do so?’

  ‘Yes, the conjecture that your husband was attacked as part of a random robbery was not sensible. Relatively few people go through those woods. During the last four days, an average of only three per day have traversed that route.’

  ‘You counted them?’ Beth asked.

  Jamie frowned, an expression of irritation flickering across his features. ‘No, Beth, that is not a sensible comment. You know I have been here some of the time. I organised a roster of village boys.’

  Ren saw Beth’s jaw drop slightly.

  ‘Therefore, it did not seem reasonable that highway men would come from elsewhere to target an area so remote on the off chance of finding a vulnerable traveller.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Beth said.

  ‘Could they have bee
n local people, desperate opportunists without any clear plan?’ Ren asked, leaning forward, his interest piqued. ‘The Duke’s people are starving.’

  ‘Their faces were hidden by masks. This indicates some level of preparation. I also interviewed people at the public house and they reported seeing at least one stranger to these parts.’

  ‘You interviewed people? But you don’t even like talking to strangers,’ Beth gasped.

  ‘The constable helped.’

  At some later time, Ren would remember Beth’s expression and laugh. She looked dumbfounded, as though her favourite dog had grown two heads.

  He pushed this thought away.

  ‘I still don’t see how the Duke could have been involved,’ he said. ‘Isn’t he in London?’

  ‘He was, although he is at his estate now. Obviously, he was not the attacker. He merely organised the attack and paid the men to perpetrate the assault.’

  As Jamie spoke, Ren suddenly remembered that moment in the woods. He saw the cloaked figure with the masked face. He heard the low, guttural voice.

  ‘We still gotta kill him....’

  * * *

  Before it had been as though he could hear only a dim distant echo, the sounds so indistinct as to be incomprehensible. Now the words became clear.

  ‘The men, they said that they would be paid. They would get more money if they killed me,’ Ren said. ‘I remember now.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Jamie rubbed his hands together with an almost gleeful satisfaction.

  ‘You think that the Duke would have paid them? That he wanted me dead?’

  ‘That is my hypothesis.’

  ‘You didn’t accost the Duke, did you?’ Beth asked, worry lacing her tones.

  ‘No. He might have hurt me, if only to gain my silence. I felt it was better to remain unharmed so I could procure additional evidence.’

  ‘So—’ Beth began to say.

  ‘I really feel that this would go faster if you would stop interrupting.’

  Ren saw Beth grin and felt his own answering humour. ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘As I mentioned, the constable and I went to the Three Bells Tavern. We spoke to several individuals about the stranger they had seen. Unfortunately, their descriptions were not helpful. People are remarkably unobservant. I really feel that schools and such should train individuals in the scientific method—’

  ‘Please Jamie.’

  ‘Right.’ Jamie glanced at his sister. ‘Anyway, the serving girl stated that there had been several thefts from the pantry.’

  ‘Which must have been the men!’ Beth said as though unable to contain herself. ‘Maybe Ren had injured them and they had to hide until they regained strength so they stole food.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Jamie said. ‘The constable seemed better equipped at locating them than analysing the complexity and motivation behind the original assault. Therefore, I was able to let him take over that part of the investigation.’

  ‘And he found them?’ Beth asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  She shivered, reaching for her brother’s hand. ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘The constable made contact with Bow Street. I believe the men were going to be escorted to London for further questioning.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you for this.’

  There was a pause. Jamie released her hand, reaching forward to poke the fire. She heard it crackle.

  ‘But what about the Duke?’ she asked.

  ‘He is still at large.’

  Ren saw her shiver. ‘You really think he is complicit in this. Did the men say so?’

  ‘I do not know. They are only just now being interrogated. However, there is evidence that they were being paid by someone. The Duke seems the most likely culprit, although this is more in the nature of a hypothesis as opposed to scientific fact.’

  ‘I think he might be, too,’ she whispered as she pulled a thread loose from her dress, wrapping it about her finger. ‘There is an evil about him. It seems greater than mere violence.’

  Ren reached forward, touching her hand and stilling her restless movement. ‘He will be stopped.’

  ‘I worry that he is too clever. There will be no proof that he is behind the attack. It will remain a—a hypothesis.’

  ‘In the event there is no evidence to connect him to this current assault, it would be illogical for him plan a second attack and hope to avoid detection,’ Jamie said.

  ‘I am not certain if the Duke is logical,’ Beth said.

  Her face had drained again of colour. He remembered how on that night that they had spent together, she had admitted her fear. He saw it again, in her quickened breath and the nervous movements of her hands.

  ‘Don’t worry. I will be fine. He won’t jeopardise his own neck,’ Ren said.

  ‘I believe Ren is correct. The Duke will seek self-preservation above greed. I presume he hoped to inherit, in the event of your demise.’

  ‘My guess is that his addiction to opium is impacting his solvency,’ Ren said.

  ‘Is that the sweet smell that is always about him?’ Beth asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Jamie stood, his movements as always brisk and businesslike. ‘Now, I need to measure some seedlings. I have tried to increase the amount of nitrates and hope to ascertain the optimum levels.’

  Beth nodded. ‘Thank you, Jamie. This could not have been easy for you.’

  ‘I find criminal investigation similar to science, although I don’t think I would like to do it on an ongoing basis.’

  ‘Let us hope that there is no need for you to do so,’ Beth said.

  ‘Talking about science, I could discuss the science experiment that I was pursuing with Edmund regarding gypsum and manure, prior to measuring the seedlings. I believe you had an interest in it.’

  ‘Perhaps later,’ Ren said and Beth heard that familiar ripple of mirth. ‘But thank you. It is appreciated.’

  ‘Yes,’ Beth said. ‘Thank you.’

  After Jamie had left, Ren took Beth’s hand again. ‘We need to talk,’ he said. ‘We are going to talk. But I need to do something first. Stay here. I am coming back.’

  * * *

  Ren dismounted and, after tethering his horse, walked up to the front door of the Duke’s house. The bell was answered by a servant in a dirty livery. He seemed surprised by Ren’s presence, stepping backwards and giving no opposition when Ren walked inside.

  ‘His Grace is in the library,’ he offered.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The residence had the size and proportions of Graham Hill, but there was a sense of neglect and sadness about it. The floor had not been polished. The banister rail was splintered, the brass doorknob tarnished and dust hung heavy in the air.

  On entering the library, the feeling of neglect intensified. No fire warmed the hearth and long cobwebs were visible from the chandelier. The threadbare furnishings were sparse as though chairs and tables had been removed. The walls were vast and empty, rectangles of faded paint remaining as the only evidence of paintings removed and sold.

  The Duke sat beside the dark hole of the hearth. The empty room made him seem smaller.

  ‘Lord Graham,’ the servant said.

  ‘Still got use of my eyes,’ the Duke said, by way of greeting.

  He looked thinner and paler even compared to the night at the ballet. His necktie and collar appeared loose and his skin resembled that of a plucked chicken. His hands shook and Ren noted a sheen of perspiration across his flaccid cheeks.

  ‘Ayrebourne.’

  ‘To what do I owe this honour?’ the Duke asked, casting his pallid blue gaze in Ren’s direction.

  ‘I thought you might wish to get dressed. I believe you may soon be getting a visit from the Bow Street Runners.’

  The Duke’s pallid eyes remain
ed expressionless and he gave an imperceptible shrug. ‘I may be getting visits from many individuals. On the whole, the Bow Street Runners might not be the most unpleasant.’

  Ren walked further into the room. He sat on the only other piece of furnishing, a straight-backed chair to the right of the hearth. ‘I suppose people who sell opium like to be paid promptly and become unpleasant when they are not. Really much better to make your tailor wait than the provider of one’s opium.’

  The Duke made no comment.

  ‘I have heard also that one starts to shake if one does not get the dose of opium required. I had wondered if that were true. It would explain your desperation and your fast deterioration,’ Ren said dispassionately.

  Ayrebourne clutched the arm of his chair as though to prevent the shudders which seemed to rack him. ‘You sound like your crazy brother-in-law.’

  ‘Jamie is actually remarkably intelligent. You have been selling your furniture and paintings. Is your London house similarly denuded?’

  ‘Why don’t you and your pretty wife visit me and find out?’ Ayrebourne spat out.

  Ren stood. With one swift step he was beside the Duke. He leaned over him. ‘Because my wife is not going to go anywhere near you ever again. And if I find that you have been within a hundred feet of her, I will not wait for the opium dealers to do their work. I will kill you myself.’

  He saw Ayrebourne’s hand shake and watched him swallow, the Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

  ‘For God’s sake, man. Doubt I’ll see her. Likely have to sell this place anyway.’

  ‘Good.’ Ren stepped away, returning to sit in the chair opposite. ‘Now that we have established your immediate demise if you so much as think about my wife, we can discuss your estate. I will buy it.’

  ‘The estate?’

  ‘Yes.’ Slowly, Ren pulled out the money order, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘You plan to buy it?’ the Duke repeated, confusion flickering.

  ‘Yes. I will buy this place. I will even offer you a fair price, given its dilapidated state. I have an advance here. It will enable you to settle your debts and keep your innards in one piece for the time being. You might even be able to purchase some more of your opium.’

 

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