Caught in a Cornish Scandal

by Eleanor Webster

  The pistol was pressed flush to her temple. She could feel the chill metal.

  ‘Mr Cartwell, if you could tie them up, please? Start with him.’ Mrs Ludlow nodded towards Sam.

  ‘Cartwell, are you mad?’ Sam demanded.

  ‘No,’ Mrs Ludlow said. ‘I think not. It makes absolute sense as I am paying him well and I hold the pistol, a winning point in any argument.’

  ‘Mrs Ludlow, please, you cannot get away with this. Do not condemn yourself to Jason’s fate,’ Sam said.

  Millie felt Mrs Ludlow remove her hand from her shoulder and felt transitory relief, inhaling as though the clamp of the woman’s cold fingers had impacted her ability to breathe. This sense of respite dissipated almost immediately as the older woman leaned over, so close that Millie could smell the cloying scent of lavender and the tickle of her hair against her skin.

  ‘Isn’t Mr Garrett kind?’ Mrs Ludlow whispered against her ear. ‘I thank you for your concern. Now, please, co-operate with dear Mr Cartwell as I do not want to become unpleasant.’

  There was a rustle of cloth behind her and Millie felt metal at her throat. At first, she thought it was the pistol, but winced at the sharp prick of a knife’s point.

  ‘Do not hurt her,’ Sam said quickly. ‘This has nothing to do with her.’

  ‘I believe you involved her when you invited your mad sister to Miss Lansdowne’s domicile. Still, I won’t hurt her now, if you co-operate.’

  Sam put his arms behind him as Cartwell moved towards him.

  ‘That’s better. Isn’t everything so much easier when you co-operate?’ Mrs Ludlow said, moving the knife so gently that it tickled Millie’s skin as she ran it up her neck and along her jawline.

  The older woman bent forward, her tone becoming almost affectionate as she moved the cold metal tip of the knife over Millie’s skin in an eerie caress. ‘Poor Millicent is not considered the pretty sister, you know. They underestimate her, I think. Of course, society always likes blonde hair and blue eyes. I believe you were quite taken by a blonde, blue-eyed miss yourself once, Mr Garrett. Little Annie Whistler, as I recall, but I quite like Miss Lansdowne’s looks and her skin is perfect. Not as pretty as Lillian, but more interesting... Society is not kind to women, you know. They discard us when our chins sag and our skins wrinkle.’

  Her tone softened into melancholy. Millie felt the whisper of her breath and its smell mixed with the scent of lavender. She pressed her back into the chair, as though this slight movement might give her some respite from the woman’s proximity.

  Then, with lightening rapidity, Mrs Ludlow’s mood changed. She straightened, prodding the pistol at Millie’s temple with sudden irritation. ‘Good heavens, Cartwell, you’re making a meal of it! Stop playing with the rope and get the man tied. Feet as well, but not too tight. They need to walk. And for goodness sake, do not take all day.’

  The landlord bent, kneeling beside Sam, looping the rope about his ankles, effectively shackling him.

  ‘Much better. Now tie her up, too. Stand up, Miss Lansdowne. You may be tired, but we cannot have you sitting about all the time, you know.’

  Millie stood, dazed. It seemed incongruous to be bound within this snug room—The Rising Dawn had provided a more appropriate location for such a misadventure. And the Captain, with his pockmarked face, had been more suitable as a captor. This middle-aged woman with her violet dress and salt-and-pepper hair was wrong. She had walked into the wrong play and was reading the wrong script.

  Millie was jolted from her confused tangle of thought as the landlord pulled her hands back, winding the rope tight about her wrists.

  ‘Feet, too, remember,’ Mrs Ludlow said.

  The landlord bent, squatting down and winding the rope about Millie’s ankles. He had a white fringe of hair. It circled his head, leaving the centre shiny and bald.

  ‘Very good,’ Mrs Ludlow said. ‘Now lead them out.’

  ‘What? Me?’ the landlord asked. He voice rose and Millie saw apprehension flicker in his expression. ‘Where?’

  ‘Down to the ocean,’ Mrs Ludlow said with a benign smile, as though offering a child a weekend treat.

  ‘Well, I...um... I have the pigs to feed. And the cows to milk. I mean, Betsy usually does that, but you had me send Betsy home.’

  ‘The pigs and cows will have to wait. Unless, of course, you want me to have that little chat with the excise men. Here.’ The benign tone turned sharp as she tossed a coin to the landlord. ‘Any more concerns?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Good.’

  They stumbled forward, walking through the corridor, stuffy with the smell of stale food, and into the brisk air outside. The darkness of night was broken by the silvery luminescence of the full moon and the flickering light of Cartwell’s lamp. The air was cold. Millie heard her teeth chattering as they moved across the courtyard, towards the trail that they had so recently climbed. The heavy ropes made walking difficult. Millie fell once, sliding on to her rear, just able to save herself while a cascade of rocks clattered downwards.

  ‘It would be quicker and easier with our legs untied,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, it would, wouldn’t it,’ Mrs Ludlow agreed equitably.

  They did not take the path towards the fishing village, instead veering to the left. This trail was so overgrown that branches snapped against their faces, arms and legs. Even with the lamplight they were constantly stumbling over twisting roots threading the path.

  At last they burst from the cover of foliage and on to the shale beach. Millie felt both a relief and dread. There was the thankfulness that the long, painful walk was over, but also dread of what was to come.

  It was a circle, one that had begun on the ship and ended here. The ropes around her arms and legs felt oddly familiar. The moon shimmered. It seemed more beautiful than Millie had ever seen it, like liquid silver splashed across inky waters.

  ‘Took you long enough!’ The strident male voice violently shattered the dark silence.

  Millie jumped. She twisted, losing her balance and almost falling on to the pebbled beach.

  Jason Ludlow strolled towards them. ‘Rumours of my demise have been grossly exaggerated.’ His speech was slurred, his movements unsteady. ‘Mother, why the hell have you brought these fools?’

  When Millie had last seen him, he had appeared the gentleman. Now, his clothes were dirty, his face unshaven and he looked every inch the hardened criminal he had become.

  It was a circle and now they would die, not by fire or drowning, but by execution on the shale beach.

  Jason came up to her, so close that she could smell the alcohol on his breath and the stink of his soiled clothes. ‘Tom’s little sister. Decided to join the party? Grown prettier, I see. But too serious. You were always much too serious. Do not like my women serious.’

  ‘I am not your woman!’ Millie snapped.

  ‘Feisty, too. I remember that. I rather liked it...’

  ‘Jason,’ Mrs Ludlow said with more sorrow than anger. ‘Jason, you couldn’t stay sober even for a day? You did not go into the village to get more, I hope?’

  He yawned. ‘Good gracious, enough with the nagging, Mother. Always you nag and bother me with ludicrous rules and admonitions. No, Mother, I found your stash of food and beverage and, while not overly generous, there was a sufficiency. Did you find a vessel for me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Ludlow glanced towards the sea. ‘It will be here soon and will take you to France.’

  ‘And what of them?’ He nodded towards Millie and Sam.

  ‘Murder, then suicide, I think.’

  ‘Jason, for goodness sake, this is crazy. No one will believe that,’ Sam said.

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll be in France.’

  Sam looked towards Mrs Ludlow. ‘Right now you have committed no irreversible crime. I can talk to the magistrate, plead
clemency. You are desperate to save your son, that will be understood. But if you kill us, you will be guilty of murder.’

  Mrs Ludlow gave an odd laugh. ‘No irreversible crime? And what crime is exactly reversible? Haven’t you realised that there are no criminals: just the rich and the poor, the winners and the losers, weak and powerful. I have it all worked out. It is not what happens that matters, but what people believe.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Millie asked.

  ‘Let me enlighten you,’ she said, as though sharing a pleasant narrative. ‘You see, we have dear Mr Garrett, the loving brother, who came down from London and was so distressed by the cruel treatment of his sister that he killed the cruel husband. The local magistrate is easily convinced that the death was largely accidental, a skirmish between men with unfortunate results. But the grieving widow stays with dear, sweet Miss Lansdowne and tells her that the brother, Mr Garrett, actually plotted to murder the cruel husband. You have such a sympathetic ear, dear. And nice skin.

  ‘Miss Lansdowne accosts the loving brother. She accuses him of murder. A hangable offence. Furious, the brother kills the grieving widow’s dear friend. Or maybe they have an argument and she falls off a cliff. Mr Garrett, tortured by guilt, commits suicide. Very tragic. It could be an opera. You like opera, as I recall, Mr Garrett?’ She stopped again, her voice raised and at odds with the rest of the recitation, which had been spoken in a peculiar singsong manner.

  ‘Do not!’ Sam snapped out the curt command. ‘No one in their right mind is going to believe such nonsense. It is a load of drivel.’

  Mrs Ludlow gave a graceful shrug. ‘Maybe. I do find being in one’s right mind limits creativity. And it is a bit far-fetched, I’ll grant you. However, the fanciful tale will be believed long enough for dear sweet little Frances to have a nervous breakdown. At this point, I will step in, as the doting grandmother, and look after dear Noah. I have already been working on my grandmotherly looks—less glamorous, you will note.

  ‘Naturally, I will feel the need of a warmer clime and leave, with Noah, for Italy. I am not particularly fond of children, but I am fond of trust funds. Jason will join us and we will be comfortably settled in a delightful villa before anyone questions—’

  ‘No!’ The one syllable shattered the night, silencing the older woman.

  A dark shadowed shape exploded from the shrubbery, catapulting on to the woman with a primal force. For a confused moment, Sam thought a wild animal had attacked as Mrs Ludlow buckled, falling to the shale beach.

  Acting with pure instinct, Sam rammed his body against Jason, despite his bound legs. The man crumpled, striking his head against a boulder and then lying quite still.

  Sam turned. Two dark figures struggled on the beach, silhouetted against the moon’s white disc. The pistol had fallen from Mrs Ludlow’s hand and in a blur of movement, he saw hands outstretched, fingers scrabbling over the shale, reaching and grabbing for it. Then, for a split second, he saw Frances’s white face.

  She grasped the pistol.

  The two figures disentangled. Frances reared up and swung the pistol wildly, striking Mrs Ludlow so that she collapsed to the ground.

  There was a moment of silence, broken only by the waves and the sound of Frances’s panting breath.

  ‘How did you get here?’ Sam gasped.

  His sister did not answer. Instead, she weighed the pistol in her hand, cupping the handle almost lovingly and staring at it with apparent fascination.

  ‘Fran, untie me and give me the pistol! We’ll use these ropes to bind them. Where is Cartwell?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Ran away!’ Millie shouted. She was kneeling beside Jason. ‘He did not even leave us the lamp. Jason is still out cold, but we’d best tie him up, just to be sure. Frances, could you untie Sam so we can use the ropes?’

  Frances still made no response. Instead, she walked quite slowly over the shale to where Jason lay, as though pulled by an inexorable force. Her footsteps made a rattling sound as the shale settled under her weight. She stopped with her feet inches from the man’s body. Lifting her foot, she prodded him, her movement almost delicate. He groaned.

  ‘He is not dead,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll tie him up,’ Sam said.

  ‘You would have killed my brother and taken my child,’ she spoke to the unconscious man, still cradling the pistol.

  ‘Fran, untie me.’ Sam felt cold apprehension. It tightened his throat, drying his mouth and making his breathing uneven.

  Frances seemed disconnected from the scene, oblivious to their words with her entire concentration focused on the pistol in her hand.

  ‘And now, I will take your life, Jason. That seems fair. You have taken so many lives. Men, women, children even. I still see them. They haunt me. Do they haunt you? Do they haunt your dreams? Do you see their dead faces ravaged by the sea? I see them all the time. I see them when I sleep. I see them when I wake. I see them when I walk along the shore.’

  Very slowly, she lifted up the pistol, smiling slightly and almost caressing the barrel, as her finger reached for the trigger.

  ‘Fran, no!’ Sam said. ‘Please, you cannot be judge and jury.’

  ‘I can, actually.’

  Slowly and carefully, Frances took aim.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Frances, do not. Please,’ Sam repeated.

  Millie’s heart pounded and her thoughts bounced about her head as she watched the woman’s slow, almost drugged, motions. It was as though she was powered by a force outside herself.

  There must be something she could say or do that would help.

  Something...something...something...

  Millie was on the ground, quite close to Jason. Looking up, she could see both the pistol and Frances’s pale face, visible in the moonlight. ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please, I know it feels as though we have no choice or control. But we do. We can control who we are. That is the only thing we can control.’

  For a moment, Frances seemed oblvious to her words but then she spoke in slow rhythmic tones.

  ‘He was cruel. He is cruel.’

  ‘I know he is cruel. But you are not. You are kind.’

  Frances glanced to her.

  It was the first time her focus was moved from the man or weapon and Millie felt both hope and sick fear. ‘Please,’ she said, scared of saying the wrong word and desperate to prolong the tenuous connection. ‘Please give Sam the pistol. Your son needs a mother and Sam needs a sister. He has lost so much. Please, please, do not take that from him.’

  The moment felt long, endless. Everything stilled. The lapping of the waves, the rustling leaves, the crackling branches, singing crickets, everything became muted...subdued...slowed. Millie dared not exhale, fearful even of the sound of her breath. Thoughts and words filled her mind, but she squashed them. She’d said enough.

  Very slowly, Frances lowered the pistol and walked to Sam, placing it into his hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  He turned his gaze to Millie. ‘Thank you.’

  * * *

  It was Millie who saw Mrs Ludlow move to the water’s edge.

  Sam was bent forward, binding Jason’s arms while Frances sat on a boulder, curved in upon herself, as though spent of every last resource.

  Mrs Ludlow rose. Millie tensed, fearful of attack, but Mrs Ludlow did not turn to them. Instead, she gathered her skirts, stepping to the water’s edge, her movement oddly graceful.

  ‘Sam! Mrs Ludlow—she is going into the water,’ Millie said.

  Sam glanced up. ‘She cannot go anywhere.’

  ‘There is a boat out there. In the distance.’

  ‘It’s heading away. I’ll use those ropes for her hands, when she gives up on the notion of walking to France.’

  Millie watched as Mrs Ludlow stepped forward with a steadiness of purpose, moving with neit
her speed nor hesitation.

  ‘We have to stop her. I do not think she is quite sane. Jason was likely cruel to her also,’ Millie said.

  Cautiously, she walked over the shale. ‘Mrs Ludlow?’ She raised her voice, but kept the tone kind. ‘Please, come in, before you catch your death.’

  Mrs Ludlow stood knee-deep in the shallows, looking into the distance. Almost to Millie’s surprise, she turned, her expression startled, as though she had forgotten the presence of others.

  ‘It went away, Miss Lansdowne,’ she said. ‘The boat. It went away.’

  ‘I know, but come in now. The ocean is so cold. We do not want you to become ill.’

  Mrs Ludlow smiled, as though privy to some secret knowledge. ‘I do not believe catching my death will really matter, you know. They will hang me.’

  ‘Please do not think that. They won’t hang you,’ Millie said. ‘We are alive and you aren’t responsible for Jason’s choices.’

  ‘Miss Lansdowne, Jason doesn’t choose. He careens through life like a drunken blunderer. Rather like your brother, I suppose.’

  Millie stiffened at the mention of Tom. It still hurt, that mix of pain and grief and a seldom-acknowledged raw anger.

  ‘Come in, Mrs Ludlow, so you can get dry.’

  To her surprise, the woman complied. She walked towards the shore, the water splashing with her movement. ‘I had intended to take my own life, but I find it not as easy as I had anticipated. Likely, they will resolve the issue for me.’

  Millie glanced towards Sam. He had finished binding Jason and rose, the ropes held in his hands. Frances was still unmoving with her arms hugging her knees, her eyes focused on the horizon.

  The older woman moved steadily, displaying little haste, as she stepped further up the shale shore. Her skirts hung about her legs, clinging in damp folds. Her hair fell on to her forehead, wet and dishevelled. She looked at Jason where he lay, unconscious, but secured with ropes.

  ‘Poor Jason. So inefficient. Never the brightest, you know. I told dear Jason to make you dead. But you are not dead.’ She walked up the shore towards Sam.