by Angie Ray
“I rode after them. The night was dark, the moon almost obscured by gathering stormclouds, but I caught them easily enough. When I opened the carriage door, Alicia immediately began to shriek. Ignoring her caterwauling as best I could, I took hold of her arm and told her to come down.”
Margaret shivered a little at Phillip’s stern expression. She would not liked to have been in Alicia’s shoes that night.
Phillip laughed humorlessly. “Mortimer was in his element. ‘Unhand her or I’ll see you in hell,’ he threatened me. He always had a taste for melodrama. Unfortunately, I was in no mood to tolerate his absurdities. ‘That wouldn’t be a challenge would it?’ I asked. I was cold and tired, itching to thrash that knave, and more than willing to settle the score then and there. Mortimer, after looking at Alicia, accepted. I’m certain she hoped I’d be killed so she’d be free to marry her lover.”
Phillip paused, staring into the dark corner by the wardrobe.
“Did you fight him?” Margaret asked.
Phillip tore his gaze away from the corner. “Yes,” he said, his voice clipped. “We fought. The postboys held torches, but as Mortimer and I saluted each other with our swords, it began to rain. The torches kept going out. It was the uncanniest duel I’ve ever fought. All shadow, and flickering torchlight, and glinting steel. The visibility was almost nil. I had to rely heavily on other senses. Singing steel and Mortimer’s feral scent were often the only warnings I had of an attack.”
Margaret’s fingers tightened on the arms of her chair. What he described sounded barbaric and made her feel slightly ill. Why would he risk death or mutilation over such a woman? Or any woman? Thank heaven men nowadays were more civilized, less bloodthirsty.
“Mortimer fought well, with his usual viciousness, but I was always the better swordsman. The duel ended with Mortimer lying in the mud, the tip of my blade at his throat. I left him there and took Alicia home. She cried the whole way. At the house, she turned hysterical, screeching how she hated me and what a cold, inhuman monster I was. She exclaimed that she rued the day she married me.”
Phillip shook his head. “Not as much as I rued it. If I’d known what a greedy slut she was I would have taken a mistress to satisfy my lust and saved myself the trouble of a wife. I said as much to her, and breast heaving, she slapped me, then bolted up the stairs. One week later she was dead.”
Margaret leaned forward. “But how, Phillip? You didn’t push her did you?”
“Certainly not. She caught a chill, which worsened rapidly. Delirious, she tried to run away again, only to fall down the stairs to her death. I had nothing to do with it.”
Relief spread through Margaret. Although she had never truly doubted him, part of her couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps--just perhaps--he actually had murdered his wife. Aunt Letty certainly thought he had. “Why did everyone think you did?”
“Mortimer accused me of killing her. In front of half the village, in the graveyard where I had just buried her. I was feeling numb, not with grief--I’d lost all affection for her--but with the waste, when Mortimer hissed, ‘You killed her.’”
“Good Lord,” Margaret said blankly.
“That was how I felt. I was so unutterably weary, all I could think was why couldn’t Mortimer have chosen some other time for a confrontation. I was too tired to deal with his irrational spite right then, so with a humorless laugh, I said, ‘You’ll have the devil of a time proving it,’ then left before Mortimer could say more. I regretted my flippant reply when I was arrested and indicted for murder by the Durham Grand Jury.”
“For saying that they indicted you?”
“Oh, Mortimer planned his revenge well. Using his influence, he packed the jury box with various cousins, second cousins, and cousins-in-law. The indictment was a foregone conclusion. Using his wealth, he bribed enough officials to keep me in prison almost a year until the trial.”
“You spent an entire year in prison?” Margaret was appalled. “How did you bear it?”
“It could have been worse. At least I was wealthy enough to purchase some amenities and obtain certain privileges. For a small fee, the guards allowed the prisoners to visit one another, and at least that alleviated some of the tedium.” He grinned bleakly. “I met some interesting characters there. One, a gentleman thief, explained to me how doctoring certain documents could win me a fortune. Another, a Captain Sharp--a card cheat--was so skilled, he could determine what card he had dealt by looking at its reflection in the diamond ring he wore. Yet another, an anarchist, tried to recruit me to his cause--if I were willing to assist in the assassination of the King, he would help me escape.”
“Good Lord!” Margaret could not hide her shock.
Phillip’s grin widened a little at her horror. “I spent many an amusing hour in his and the others’ company, until the trial.”
The trial. Margaret rubbed her arms, trying to warm them. “What happened at the trial?”
His smile fading, Phillip took a deep, ireful breath. He didn’t think he could find words to explain an event so incomprehensible. “’Til the very first day of the trial, I had no doubt I would be found innocent. But when I walked into that courtroom and saw the Lord High Steward, I knew I was in trouble. It was no coincidence that he was there. He had a grudge against me, and Mortimer knew it.”
Phillip paused a moment, remembering the endless days of the trial. The memories grew more vivid, and once again he felt the helpless anger that had consumed him.
Chapter Eleven
By the time the last day of the trial arrived, Phillip knew he would be found guilty. He didn’t quite know how Mortimer would do it--the evidence was appallingly circumstantial--but Phillip had no doubt what the verdict would be.
Which was why he made it a point to stride into the oven-like courtroom as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
He approached the bar, made three reverences, and knelt gracefully before the Lord High Steward. Rising, he made a show of dusting off his faultlessly-cut breeches and immaculate white linen, before looking up to see Mortimer’s avid gaze.
Phillip wanted to laugh. Did the fool think he would slink into the room, cowering like a dog? An Eglinton would never sink so low. Deliberately, anticipating Mortimer’s reaction, Phillip slowly, almost casually, flicked his thumb across his nose. Then he tilted his head back and smiled.
Mortimer’s face turned an ugly, dark red. His fists clenched and under the black robe his shoulders shook.
Phillip’s smile widened. He enjoyed tweaking Mortimer, although it was a small retribution for the hell he had endured. Soon, though, he would seek full revenge. The trial was almost over; only Mortimer had yet to testify. After today, tomorrow at the latest, he would be free, and then Mortimer would regret his lies.
A small frown knit Phillip’s brow. There was one detail that didn’t make sense. Surely Mortimer knew that even if found guilty, Phillip would still be set free. Didn’t the fool realize what would happen then?
As if sensing Phillip’s thoughts, Mortimer suddenly looked up. The two men’s gazes met and clashed, battling for victory, but even more importantly, battling for the other’s defeat.
“Lord Mortimer, please rise.”
With one last hate-filled glance at Phillip, Mortimer rose to testify.
“Lord Mortimer, would you please tell the court how you knew Lady Holwell?” asked the Attorney-General.
“Her parents lived on an estate bordering mine. Alicia and I practically grew up together. She was like a sister to me.”
Phillip snorted loudly. The Lord High Steward frowned at him, then nodded at the Attorney-General to continue.
“Lord Mortimer, please tell the court the conversation you had with the prisoner on the day of May 6th, 1768.”
“It was at Alicia’s funeral. I was very upset, and I admit, slightly out of my head with grief. When I accused Lord Holwell of murdering Alicia, I did not actually mean it, you understand. I spoke from anger at her tragic death. But to my su
rprise he didn’t deny it.” Mortimer shot a sly look at Phillip, then shook his head in pretended disbelief.
“What did Lord Holwell say?”
“He laughed. Like a fiend from hell. Needless to say I was shocked. But worse was to come, for then he said, ‘You’ll have the devil of a time proving it, Mortimer.’”
“What did you do then?”
“I notified the magistrate, and Holwell was arrested and indicted for murder.”
“Lord Mortimer, isn’t it true that something has occurred since that time, something that proves Lord Holwell’s guilt?”
Phillip looked up sharply. He caught a glimpse of the glee in Mortimer’s eyes before the blackguard lowered them to his piously clasped hands. What new lie had he invented now? Phillip wondered grimly.
“Lord Mortimer,” said the Attorney General. “Tell the court, if you please, what happened on the evening of May 4th, 1769.”
“I had stopped at the vicarage, to discuss some matter with the vicar. Our business done, I wandered over to the graveyard where Alicia is buried. The sight of that cold marble tombstone nearly unmanned me. Fighting tears, I picked a few flowers from the roadside--yellow lilies, they were--then entered through the gate to place them on dear Alicia’s grave. No sooner had I done so, than a strange feeling came over me and a voice whispered in my ear. I looked around, but could see no one. The whisper drew out into a horrible groan.”
“And then?” prompted the Attorney-General.
“And then I saw it...a white wispy form hovering over her grave.”
“Lord Mortimer, did the apparition identify itself?”
“Yes.” The room grew so quiet, only the scratching of the clerks’ pens could be heard. “It said it was Alicia’s ghost!”
A low murmur swept the room.
“What else did the apparition say?”
“It said that Alicia’s death had been no accident. It said that she had been murdered most foully, murdered by her very own husband, Phillip Eglinton, Viscount Holwell!”
The murmur grew to a roar. The Sergeant-at-Arms pounded his staff. “Order! Order!” he cried.
Phillip stood immobile, disbelief and outrage filling him. He glanced around at the rustling, whispering lords, wondering what they were thinking. Surely they did not believe this cock-and-bull story?
When the noise had subsided, the Solicitor-General rose to his feet. “Your lordships,” he said in a high, squeaky voice. “This seems highly irregular. May I inquire of the court if there is any basis for allowing testimony from a...a phantasm?”
“There is,” answered the Attorney-General smoothly. “I draw your attention to the Sergeant Davies murder case of 1749. It was tried before the Edinburgh High Court of Justiciary. Testimony by one Alex McPherson, who claimed to have had conversation with the victim’s ghost, was admitted into evidence.”
The Lord High Steward took a few minutes to confer with the judges. Their hushed discussion was almost drowned out by the lords whispering behind their hands. Finally, the Lord High Steward called for order and announced the decision. “We will allow it. Proceed.”
“Nothing further, your lordship.” The Attorney-General bounced triumphantly back to his seat.
The Lord High Steward turned to where Phillip stood frozen in stunned disbelief. “Lord Holwell, do you wish to examine this witness?”
“I do, your lordship.” Anger at the farce being played out before him almost overwhelmed Phillip. He knew it would be impossible to prove Mortimer was lying, but by God, he would make certain Mortimer looked like the fool he was. It was an effort to prevent any trace of emotion from showing in his face as he looked down his nose at Mortimer. He stared for several long moments, not speaking.
Sweat rolled down Mortimer’s face. His ferret-like eyes darted around the room and he reached a finger up under his wig to scratch.
Phillip pulled out a lace handkerchief and gently waved it like a fan. “A trifle warm, isn’t it?” he inquired with spurious courtesy.
Mortimer visibly seethed.
Smiling, Phillip continued to wave the handkerchief. “Now, Lord Mortimer, you have testified that Alicia was like a sister to you, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Mortimer said warily.
“And yet on the second of May, 1768, you eloped with her. Forgive me Lord Mortimer, but exactly what sort of ‘brotherly’ relationship did you have with your ‘sister’?”
A titter swept the room and Mortimer flushed angrily.
“Are you perhaps unaware that incest is illegal?”
The titters magnified.
“I sought only to protect her from your abuse,” Mortimer snapped. “Even then, she was frightened for her life.”
“I see.” Phillip returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “You say when you first saw Alicia’s ghost, she groaned. Could you tell the court what this groan sounded like?”
“Like a long sighing moan,” Mortimer answered readily enough.
“Could you be more precise?”
Mortimer looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“Would you demonstrate for the court what this moaning sounded like?”
“Well, sort of like this...Ooooooh. Ooooooooooooh. Oooooooooooooh!”
A shout of laughter rang through the room. Chuckles and muffled laughter were plainly heard. The Sergeant-at-arms pounded his staff, trying to restore order. The laughter was stifled, and for a moment, coughing was heard throughout the room.
When the room was silent, Phillip said, “Thank you, my lord, for that, er, spirited demonstration. Nothing further.”
Many of the lords were once again seized by coughing fits. Mortimer, his face red and his fists clenched, sat down. A short while later, the lords left for their deliberations and even as fury wracked him inside, Phillip smiled.
*****
“Her ghost!” Phillip pounded his balled fist against the wall, only to have his hand disappear. Startled, he pulled his hand out and glared at it. “Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?”
“No. Except, that is...you are a ghost.”
He swung around, facing her fully, his body taut with menacing rage. “What does that have to do with anything? Of all the henwitted...” He stopped and took a deep calming breath, then continued through gritted teeth. “You shouldn’t be able to convict a man based on the testimony of a ghost.”
Margaret pressed back against the chair, slightly unnerved by his anger. “I’m surprised they would allow it,” she agreed hastily. “And the lords found you guilty?”
To her relief, he resumed his pacing, arms behind his back.
“Yes. Mortimer must have used every means possible to ensure that I would be found guilty.”
“It must have been a shock when they brought in the verdict,” she said.
“Oh yes. Even though I expected it, still it was a shock. But not as great as the one I received when Robeson pronounced the sentence.”
“Robeson?” she asked. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Margaret couldn’t think why.
“The Lord High Steward on the case. At worst, he should have fined me. That’s the usual penalty in a case like this.”
“Oh, I see. Murdering a wife is obviously no serious crime.”
“Exactly.” He appeared oblivious to her sarcasm. “I tried to claim benefit of clergy, but he denied it on the grounds that my father was a Catholic. Then when I asked for trial by combat, he refused, saying my ‘de facto’ accuser was a ghost and it is impossible to challenge a ghost!” He stopped by the fireplace, staring blindly at the carved mantelpiece. “He relished handing down the sentence. He said that since Alicia was ‘so tortured by the horror of her death that she could not rest in peace,’ he felt it was his ‘duty to levy the severest punishment possible.’”
Margaret rubbed her arms again. The room seemed colder. “Why would he do such a thing?”
Phillip opened his mouth to reply, then bit back the words. He looked at her face for a moment, seeing
the innocent curve of her cheek, her guileless eyes.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Likely Mortimer bribed him. He probably even arranged for him to be the Lord High Steward. That cur bribed half the House of Lords, I’ll wager.”
Margaret shook her head. “So then what happened?”
“I was hanged.” Again his hand rose to his throat, his fingers stretching across his neck in gruesome imitation of the noose. He did not remember much of the tumbril ride. The raucous jests, the stinging missiles pelting him, had barely penetrated his consciousness as he fixedly watched the noose swaying slightly in the breeze. Climbing the stairs, he had slowly approached the knotted hemp until his entire view was framed by the circle of rope. For endless seconds, he had stared through it at the mob below. Avid eyes consumed him, and for a moment, he had almost tried to bolt.
Then, in the crowd, he had seen a gloating, greedy face.
Squaring his shoulders, he had put his head through the noose, his gaze never leaving Mortimer. As the hangman released the trapdoor, Phillip tilted his head back and smiled....
The black void loomed, feeding off his pain, dragging at him.
“Phillip!”
Margaret’s urgent voice dragged him back from the edge of the void. He looked at her white face. “It was not a pleasant experience,” he said tersely.
“I don’t imagine it was.” The skin on her neck crawled. She swallowed, trying to dispel the sensation. “What about the curse?”
“I don’t remember that at all. It must have happened after I, er, lost consciousness. A curse! Of all the nonsensical things.” He began to pace again. “Why would anyone curse me?” He stopped abruptly, his fists clenching. “Mortimer,” he spat. “I should have known.”
“You think Mortimer had something to do with it?”
“I am certain of it. He excelled at exactly that sort of spite and he hated me with all the extreme virulence only a Mortimer is capable of. I have no doubt he paid some witch handsomely to wipe the Eglinton name from the earth.”
She watched him pace, his anger actually tangible in the bright, cold glow surrounding him. “But...but do you truly believe in this curse?”
