by Evelyn James
Betty frowned, her lips worked but no sound came out. Then her head dipped and she fainted. Clara groaned to herself. She was not handling this well, at all. She decided it would be best to summon the landlady with a warm pot of tea and some smelling salts.
Betty had started to recover before the smelling salts arrived, but they were wafted under her nose nonetheless and the landlady assured Clara that the tea was on its way.
“Now, what has happened?” she asked, guessing Clara was not there on a purely social visit.
“It is somewhat complicated,” Clara forewarned her. “Harvey Howton did not drown in the lake. He faked his death. As yet we don’t know why. Last night he entered the hall in his ghostly costume and someone shot him. Now he really is dead.”
“Oh my!” declared the landlady.
Betty gulped hard, she was shivering violently from the shock of the news.
“Harvey was never dead?” she whispered, the information slowly sinking in.
“What a dreadful thing to do! To fake his death!” the landlady exclaimed. “And someone shot him? Who?”
“That remains a mystery,” Clara answered her. “Someone climbed in through a window, took a gun from the hall, and murdered Harvey. But no one is really sure why.”
“One of the family did it!” Betty’s pallor temporarily lifted as she became angry. “They all hated him! Genevieve said she was going to shoot him!”
“Oh my!” the landlady repeated.
“The evidence points to someone entering the hall from the outside,” Clara persisted. “That would exclude the family who were already in the hall. Possibly it was a servant…”
“Why are you defending them?” Betty interrupted sharply. “Every member of the family had reason to want Harvey truly dead. They could have made it look as if someone came in from the outside!”
“That is true,” Clara admitted, quietly noting to herself that that would put Richard back in the picture for the crime. He was the only one who had seen the intruder, after all. “At the moment, it is very uncertain what occurred.”
“My poor Harvey,” Betty started to weep. “They all treated him so badly! He used to tell me how Richard wished him dead, as did Lady Howton. He knew it, he had overheard things and he felt their hate. I tried to comfort him, I really did. He must have faked his death in revenge!”
“Possibly,” Clara replied, not really sure what sort of revenge Harvey had hoped to achieve. “I know this is an awful shock for you, Betty, but I had to come and tell you. It would have been worse if you had heard about it through local gossip.”
“That is very true,” the landlady sided with Clara. “It’s a terrible thing, but it would have made it worse if you had heard about it through rumours. I am so sorry, my dear.”
Betty sniffed, tears still on the brink of falling.
“I don’t know what to feel,” she said to them. “I am so confused. I thought he was dead, I was already grieving. But he was actually alive all this time? Oh Harvey, what a wicked thing to do!”
Betty rubbed at her temple as if she was in pain.
“It was a wicked thing,” the landlady spoke. “To make everyone grieve like that. Poor Angelica!”
“Don’t talk of her!” Betty snapped. “That woman was as bad as the rest of them! She never spoke a word to me! I knew she hated me the second I saw her! There was something so bitter inside her!”
“She was grieving too,” the landlady countered. “People act strange when their hearts are breaking.”
Betty was not convinced. Her despair had turned to anger.
“It is their fault! All of it! He would never have faked his death had they been nicer to him! And then he would never have been shot!” She gasped as she spoke the words, the reality of them sinking in. “I feel faint again. I think I need to lie down.”
She was helped to her bed by the landlady and tucked under the covers. More tea and a light lunch was promised before Clara and the landlady retreated to leave her in peace.
“What a terrible business,” the landlady tutted to herself as they walked downstairs. “I have never heard the like!”
“It is hard to imagine what drove Harvey to do such a thing,” Clara agreed.
“I shall never think of him the same way. I used to feel sorry for him.”
“You should still feel sorry for him,” Clara countered. “He was ill-used. The atmosphere in that hall was poisonous.”
“It was still a wicked thing to do,” the landlady said staunchly. “When I heard he drowned I draped black crepe over the windows and everything.”
Clara could see she would not be convinced. In any case, it was time she returned to the hall and saw what progress was being made there. She said her farewells and departed the inn. It was beginning to rain outside and Clara wasted no time in hurrying for the Howton’s home.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Clara managed to reach the hall before the rain tipped down on her. She was just in the front hall when the heavens opened and water fell down in sheets. Clara watched the rain for a moment, relieved she had been able to avoid it.
“Clara? Any news?” Oliver appeared from the great hall, a camera tripod under his arm.
“Not really,” Clara replied. “Have you finished your photographs?”
“Almost. The Inspector wants pictures of the smashed gun case. I’ve developed the ones I took of the crime scene,” Oliver pulled a face. “Grim old thing. What with the maggots squirming everywhere, it didn’t seem as if he had just been shot.”
“Well, he was,” Clara said swiftly, not wanting Oliver to go down that line of thinking again. “You know, now we have proof Harvey was always alive, it would be interesting to know how the switch was done. I mean, someone, or something, was buried in the mausoleum. If I can’t find someone to answer that for me, I may just have to break into the place.”
Oliver shuddered. He hadn’t quite shaken off his feelings about the strange events at Howton Hall.
“I’ll not be present for that one,” he said.
“What? In case a vampire dives out at us?” Clara raised an eyebrow at him. “Honestly, Oliver, what could possibly be in that tomb that we should be scared of?”
“I’ve already had enough of the heebie-jeebies over this case,” Oliver shook his head. “I don’t need tomb robbing added to it.”
Clara was amused, but she didn’t push him further.
Oliver was just moving into the Gun Room, when Mr Crawley appeared from the door to the servants’ quarters. He glanced suspiciously at the camera under Oliver’s arm.
“What is he taking pictures of now?” he asked, looking for all the world as if the camera was some sort of evil device that could potentially harm the antiques in the hall.
“The police want a photograph of the broken gun case,” Clara told him.
Mr Crawley was clearly not impressed.
“I was intending to clear up that mess personally, but the inspector informed me I was not to touch it. Evidence, he said. Quite how a pile of broken glass is evidence I cannot imagine,” Crawley glowered at the retreating figure of Oliver. “I can’t abide the hall in a mess.”
“For the time being, I fear you will have to suffer it,” Clara told him calmly. “Might I have a word Mr Crawley? About Harvey?”
“What about him?” Crawley said mildly. “The poor man has paid the ultimate price for the cruel hoax he played upon his lordship.”
Clara found it difficult to keep a straight face before the butler’s self-righteous indignation. An indignation that was obviously forced considering he was part of Harvey’s scheme.
“But he didn’t fool you, Mr Crawley, did he,” she said.
The butler hesitated for just a fraction of a moment.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You knew all along that Harvey was not actually dead. You assisted him.”
The colour drained from Mr Crawley’s face and he had some difficulty looking Clara in the eye as he repli
ed.
“You are mistaken, Miss Fitzgerald. I was at his funeral.”
“And at his bedside during the entire time he was feigning death,” Clara added. “You, Mr Crawley, played a vital role in this charade. You kept the family at a distance, and the old doctor at bay. Only with your help could Harvey pull off this hoax.”
“That is a terrible thing to say!” the old butler declared. “Quite where you got this idea from…”
“Please, Mr Crawley, we both know you aided Harvey, you are the only person who could have helped him. Denials are pointless,” Clara took a step closer to him. “Who, after all, over-saw Harvey’s ‘body’ being brought back to the hall?”
Crawley blinked rapidly, but the game was up. He had been foiled and he knew it. His denials were pointless. He either had to admit to being involved, or admit to being so dreadfully stupid that he could not tell that the man who he laid out on his own bed and stood vigil over was alive.
“Harvey had help from someone inside the hall,” Clara repeated herself. “There is only one likely possibility for that help. You, Mr Crawley.”
The butler started to say something, but the words died on his tongue.
“Shall we go somewhere private to discuss this?” Clara asked him. “I still have a lot of questions.”
Crawley gave a sort of moan, then he conceded defeat.
“Please accompany me to my private parlour,” he said in a deflated tone.
They walked through the servants’ quarters, Mr Crawley with his head bowed like a monk. He seemed to have lost all his bluster and usual self-confidence. Clara wondered if his conscience was pricking him, or whether it was just the misery of discovery that made him hang his head in shame.
They entered his private parlour, which was a cosy room with two armchairs and a small folding table. The room was pristine, not a speck of dust in sight. Mr Crawley offered Clara a chair and then asked if she would take tea. The formality of it all made Clara want to laugh aloud. She had just accused the man of conspiracy in a prank that had ended in death and here he was politely offering her tea. She declined, she didn’t want to waste any more time.
Mr Crawley sat in the opposite armchair and clasped his hands together. He seemed to become terribly still, as if he had turned himself to stone.
“How did Harvey persuade you to assist him?” Clara tried to bring the butler back to life.
“Oh, it was my duty,” Crawley said sadly. “Before his late lordship passed, he made me promise I would take especial care of his son. I fear he realised the terrible situation his new wife and boy would be in once he was gone. He sensed the resentment from the rest of the family. I swore to him I would serve the boy as if he was my only master and do anything I could for him.”
Mr Crawley’s face twisted into unhappiness.
“Over the years, Harvey has imposed upon my oath many times and I have obeyed. I felt I could not break the promise I made his late lordship. This last request, however, brought me to the brink of my resolve.”
“You almost refused?”
“Almost,” Crawley winced, pained by his failure to stand up to Harvey. “I wonder how different things would have been had I stuck to my principles? Harvey, however, knew exactly how to persuade me.”
Clara sensed something behind those words, something more.
“How did he persuade you? He was asking you to disregard your duty to the current Lord Howton, after all.”
“Please, do not ask me,” Crawley shut his eyes.
Clara was not satisfied.
“A young man is dead, Mr Crawley. I have to ask. How did Harvey persuade you?”
Crawley rubbed a hand over his face. He was now as pale as a ghost, and looked like he might be joining Harvey in his corpse performance, if this torment carried on any longer.
“Confession is good for the soul,” Clara quoted to him. “And I think you have a lot to confess.”
Mr Crawley raised his head and fixed Clara’s eyes with his own.
“May I ask that whatever I say stays between you and I?”
Clara nodded.
“You may,” she said, carefully making no promises.
“I have spent a lifetime serving the Howtons. I consider them as much my family as any flesh or blood kin. It pained me deeply to trick his current lordship. I don’t think I shall ever forgive myself, and I cannot defend my decision by referring to my duty to Harvey, for, in reality, I agreed for very selfish reasons,” Mr Crawley sighed. A clock on the mantel over his fire chimed the hour and, for a second, they seemed in a space removed from the rest of the house and the recent dramas. For a moment there was a pause in time and Mr Crawley could reflect on what had occurred.
“I am fond of all the family,” the butler continued. “But I found myself deeply attracted to Angelica Howton the moment she came to the hall. Naturally I shut away these feelings while his late lordship was alive, even after his death I was loyal to his memory. But, poor Angelica was desperately lonely, and felt resented by the family. I was able to provide her with solace.”
Mr Crawley’s breath caught in the back of his throat. Emotion was threatening to overcome the masterly command he usually had of himself.
“Seeing her today, brought to madness by the actions of her son, breaks my heart. Knowing that I have been a part of that, that I helped with this, destroys me,” Crawley gasped. “I love Angelica and I believe she loves me, or perhaps I should say loved, because I am not sure she knows herself, let alone anyone else anymore.”
“Were you lovers?” Clara asked bluntly.
“Miss Fitzgerald, you offer me no reprieve,” Crawley rebuked her miserably.
“I have to ask, I have to understand why you became involved in this hoax. Just loving Angelica would not have been enough. Harvey must have known there was more and could hold that against you.”
Crawley ducked his head in shame once more.
“You are right. We were lovers, for many years. I am not much older than Angelica and when she was widowed her loneliness became heart breaking. I offered her consolation. It became something much more. Of course, it went against all the rules of etiquette and it was disloyal to his late lordship. Had the family learned of it, then I would have been dismissed and I would never have seen Angelica again.”
“That is the sort of secret Harvey could use to make you do anything for him,” Clara understood. “That and the promise you made his father, a promise you were driven by guilt to keep, made you the ideal stooge in Harvey’s scheme.”
“Yes,” Mr Crawley agreed, ashamed of how far he had fallen from grace. “I was trapped. I agreed to help Master Harvey. I honestly did not know what his intentions were. At least, not at first. He told me he wanted to make the family regret the way they had shunned him. He wanted to make them feel guilty by suddenly appearing to die. I believed him.”
Clara was intrigued.
“There was more to it?” she asked.
Crawley took an unsteady breath. He was trembling as he confessed, the words having to be dragged from him.
“It was only after Harvey’s wife turned up on the doorstep that I learned the truth. I told Harvey about her, I had to. But, he had already seen her when he came to the hall one night.”
“He looked shocked when he saw her,” Clara remembered.
“I demanded the truth from him. Why, if he had a wife, was he playing this silly charade? Harvey was so stunned to see his wife here that he made no effort to lie to me. He confessed that he had genuinely married the girl and that he loved her. Unfortunately, his mother was insisting he marry an American heiress. He had told his mother about his wife and she had refused to believe him. She told him he must cut the girl off and carry on with her schemes,” Crawley ground his lips together in distress. “Apparently they argued on the matter regularly. Angelica would not be moved. She told Harvey that if he ever brought the girl to the hall or acknowledged her publicly as his wife, she would change her will, disinheriting him from he
r portion of the estate.
“When my lordship died, he divided his wealth between his wife and two sons. Harvey’s lifestyle had eaten through a large portion of the money he inherited, and the estates and the income they produce are solely owned by his brother. Harvey was reliant on his mother’s generosity, and she knew that all too well.
“When Harvey said he wanted to make the family regret how they had treated him, he was being truthful, but it was only his mother he really wanted to make feel guilty. Harvey explained it all to me, how he would play on his mother’s superstitious mind and make her believe her son was visiting her from beyond the grave. He would convince her that if she would only relinquish her desire for him to marry an heiress and consent to his existing marriage, then her son would be restored to her.”
Clara was amazed at the audacity of the scheme, but then she had met Angelica and had seen how she believed in the supernatural and things of a magical nature. It was a far-fetched ploy, but, considering how desperately Angelica longed for her son to be alive again, she could see how it might have worked.
“That was why Harvey came into the hall last night?” she asked.
“Yes. He planned to act like a ghost and make the proposition. Depending on how his mother responded, he would have the under-gardeners knock through the wall of his mausoleum and act as if they had found him alive inside.”
“Instead, someone shot him,” Clara mused.
“I wish I had never agreed to the whole thing. I betrayed Angelica,” Crawley berated himself.
“You unwittingly betrayed her,” Clara reassured him. “Let us not excuse Harvey’s part in all this. He was behind this wicked plot.”
“And I felt so sorry for his wife,” Mr Crawley continued. “She, out of all of them, did not deserve to be afflicted by false grief. It was breaking my word to Harvey, but I had to tell her he was alive.”
