“Possibly,” said Charles again. “But the situation may have changed by then; I hope so. Why do you think your father was trying so hard to stir him up?”
“I’ve no idea,” I said wearily. “He delights in causing trouble, and for some reason he seems to dislike Herron. And there is something peculiar between him and your father. He seems to have some hold over Lord Claude, but I don’t know what it is.”
“I’ve noticed that too.” After a moment he said, slowly, “Then there’s the poisoned wine.”
“Do you think—who do you think did it?” I asked, hesitant to delve into what seemed the most dire of recent events. Poison had a deliberate, an irrefutable quality to it: this was not a spontaneous crime of temper, but something coldly planned and plotted. And it looked as if the plotter had to be Lord Claude. My heart constricted again as I thought of poor little Zeus—Felicity would be inconsolable—and realized that Herron had been using him as a taster at dinner. Even then he had been suspicious… and with good cause.
Charles had not answered. When I looked at him, he had shut his eyes and was rubbing his temples. There was so much defeat in the gesture, and it was so unlike him to give in to such an emotion, that I almost rose to go to him. “It was Father,” he said without opening his eyes. “It must have been. But I can’t understand why he would do it. Even if Herron believes him to have killed the duke, there’s no proof, nothing that would make him a threat to Father. I can’t understand it.”
It was painful to see him struggle with the idea that his own father was capable of such an act. It seemed that all of us were being forced to realize that, after all, we could never truly know the people dearest to us. “Perhaps he did it under duress, at my father’s behest. He had something to do with it, I’m certain.”
But he seemed to find nothing in my words to ameliorate the conclusions that were forcing themselves on us. “There’s too much death around here,” he said, opening his eyes to stare into the fire. “This house is becoming steeped in it. I thought it would be a haven after war, but it isn’t after all.”
This time I did go to him, and sat on the arm of his chair. I took his hand and held it, and we sat without moving or speaking for a long time.
* * *
By bedtime it had started to rain. The sky that had threatened all day was finally fulfilling that threat, and that night I brushed my hair to the rushing, pattering accompaniment of the storm.
Herron had slept the greater part of the day, and by evening had shown signs of improvement. He had eaten a hearty dinner and grew restless as night fell; I knew he was eager to keep his futile nightly tryst, but he was still too weak to do so. Perhaps getting shot will be good for him, I thought; at least it will keep him in bed for a few days so that he can get the rest he so badly needs.
We did not take the evening meal in the dining room. Although two of the gardeners had removed poor Zeus’s body and buried him that afternoon, the awful scene of the night before was still so vivid in all our minds that the duchess decided we should dine in the breakfast room. There were so few of us that the smaller room would have been more appropriate in any case: Herron was confined to his bed, and my father had pointedly informed us that he would be too busy overseeing the packing of his belongings to join us. I doubt his absence caused any of us grief.
None of us spoke aloud about the strange events that had passed since last we had dined together, but I know all of us were thinking of them. It was a strained, silent meal, and afterwards we all dispersed to our rooms without even the pretense of lingering in the drawing room. Now, alone, I tried again to make sense of what I knew.
I could not construct a theory that accounted for everything. My father’s involvement still troubled me. He had been ready, even eager, to fight Herron. But poison was not consistent with his character. Like Herron, he would have been more direct: fingers around his throat, or a knife in the ribs…
It must after all have been Lord Claude who had tried to poison his stepson. Yet he would not duel him. Was he a coward, or so unwilling to commit this murder that he could only make use of the most indirect means? This made sense; by all accounts he was genuinely fond of Herron. But why, if he was so reluctant to kill Herron, would he do so at all? Again I thought of my father. If Lord Claude had murdered the duke, I thought recklessly, perhaps Father had proof, and used that power over Lord Claude… to force him to murder Herron? It still made no sense. What possible good could come to my father from Herron’s death?
I frowned in concentration, trying to recall more of that dialogue I had overheard. It had not been the conversation of a blackmailer and a victim, I had decided; there was a sense that both were entangled in something equally, but my father was the only one willing to use that situation against the other. There had been such a sense of urgency, too; my father had berated Lord Claude for delaying in executing his mission. What could they both be involved in that required such immediate attention?
And then I knew. The solution came to me whole and complete. It was so logical, with what I knew of Lord Claude and my father; it was so perfect that I wondered why Charles had not thought of it. I would have pieced the truth together sooner had I known as much as he surely did about the settlement of the estate; but then, he had not been privy to the conversation I had overheard, which rendered everything so clear.
At least Herron is safe from my father tonight, I thought with a rush of relief. And after tonight all would be well: my father was leaving tomorrow, and once he had gone, Lord Claude would not be able to bring himself to try to harm Herron again. Then, if I spoke to the duchess, if we could use that trick with the blocks and the wine glass to convince Herron of his uncle’s innocence, the family would be whole again.
For the first time in weeks, my heart felt light. I knew that the family would never quite be the same; no one would be able to forget the glimpse of something treacherous and hateful that we had seen last night. But we could leave it behind us; we could heal. I climbed into my bed with a sigh that was almost contented.
With my mind at ease, I thought I would sleep the night through. But hours later something woke me. I lay there, groggily wondering what it had been, when it came again. It was a noise.
From out in the hall I heard footsteps, moving slowly and ponderously, and a long sibilant sound that I could not identify. Moving as noiselessly as I could, I slipped out of bed and across the room to put my ear to the door. The sounds were receding in the direction of the stairs to the roof. At once I dismissed the idea that it was Herron; he was not strong enough to come so far under his own power. And no one else had any business on the roof.
I waited until I heard the door to the stairs shut. Then I stepped out of my room and followed.
The footsteps were moving so slowly that I had to stop and wait more than once, at the bottom of the stairs and then at the door to the roof, to avoid catching up with them. I did not know who I followed, but I knew I should not be seen. Finally they grew fainter and stopped altogether, and I opened the door to the roof.
It was still raining, and in the bright moonlight the wet roof gleamed like a sheet of silver. I hovered behind one of the chimneys to conceal myself, but I need not have bothered. My father was not looking in my direction.
He stood over the crumpled figure of Herron, which he had deposited a few yards away. My father was breathing heavily, and I knew now that the mysterious sound I had heard was Herron’s body being dragged across the carpeted floor. I could not tell if he was alive: he lay so still, his limbs sprawling, like a doll whose sawdust had leaked out. But then I saw him move his head, and heard him groan.
My father nudged him roughly with his foot. “None of that, boy; we can’t have you raising the house.” Having caught his breath, he made as if to pick up Herron again, and I stepped out from behind my hiding place.
“Let him be!” I commanded. My father’s head jerked up, and at the sight of me he gave a sort of choking gasp and fell back a pace, his
face draining of color. I realized then what an eerie appearance I must present: in my white nightgown, under moonlight, I could have been a ghost.
I smiled to myself. At last, Herron would have his phantom, and she might just save his life.
Raising my arms in what I hoped was a ghostly fashion, I moved closer, trying to drive him away from Herron. But as I neared, the illusion was destroyed. My father laughed shortly, and his hunched shoulders relaxed.
“You gave me a start, daughter,” he said almost gaily. “I never expected you to be here. I thought you would be deep asleep, sunk in a laudanum-induced stupor. What a nuisance you are. Can’t you do anything I want of you?”
“What are you doing?”
“Killing young Herron. He takes a great deal of killing, this lad. I’m losing count of the times his uncle and I have tried.”
“His uncle!” My heart sank, and he chuckled at the dismay in my voice.
“Ah, you had hoped your father was the only villain, had you not? But I could not always be here. It was Claude who dropped that block of masonry on you, for example.”
“But why should he try to kill me?”
“Oh, but he didn’t, you see; the mistake was so typical of Reginald. He insists that from above, in your cloak, you could have been Herron, and after all it was Herron he expected to be there. He hesitated too long, though, and botched the job.” Clicking his tongue, my father shook his head in annoyance. “Claude is entirely too soft-hearted for this sort of venture. He hasn’t sufficient ruthlessness.”
I felt a wave of genuine hatred toward this man, who had worked on a good man’s weakness to turn him to murder. “And Caesar—that was another attempt to kill Herron, wasn’t it? He insisted that the horse was dangerous, but we didn’t listen.”
“Isn’t that always the way?” His voice oozed mock sympathy, and I thought what a bizarre picture he made, conversing with me so calmly while rainwater streamed over him, running in rivulets over his face, dripping down the lapels of his dinner jacket.
“The fire was his doing as well, I suppose?”
“No, that was mine. It was so exasperating when that Charles came blundering in. And, of course, you know about the poison. I had to put a great deal of pressure on Claude before he agreed to that. He has the most irritating soft spot for his nephew; it’s been our greatest obstacle.” He eyed me curiously. “You haven’t demanded an explanation, daughter. I find it impossible to believe you this incurious.”
“Oh, I know what the explanation is,” I said, and I could not entirely suppress the selfish flicker of satisfaction I felt at the surprise this called into his face. “You and Lord Claude are the trustees of the late duke’s estate, aren’t you? And you have been spending Herron’s inheritance as if it were your own. Lord Claude’s generous gifts to his family, his improvements to the tenants’ houses, your self-indulgent extravagance—all came out of the money that was to become Herron’s on his twenty-first birthday.” His expression told me that my surmise was correct and, boldly, I continued. “But you could not let him live that long, to discover what you had done. If he died before coming into his inheritance, he could not bear witness to your crime—and what happens to the estate then? Does it revert to the trustees who have already bled it dry?”
He swept me a theatrical bow. “Reginald and I continue to administer it, yes. You have impressed me, daughter: I never thought your feeble brain capable of such feats. Or”—his eyes narrowed—“did someone help you with your thinking?”
My mind worked rapidly. It would be unsafe for me to admit that I had told no one of these conclusions. “It was Charles’s idea, in fact,” I improvised. “He is the one who recognized your intentions. Soon everyone will know.”
But to my dismay his face split in a grin. “Ah, so the stalwart Charles is your confidant. Excellent! He will never open his lips. It would destroy his father’s reputation or put him in danger of prison. I could not have chosen a better way to keep the matter secret.”
Horrified, I watched as he turned back to Herron. “Well, enough of this badinage, daughter; I have a task to complete before I take my leave. Young Herron’s suicidal yearnings are well known now, thanks to you, and it should surprise no one when he is discovered to have thrown himself off the roof. Particularly in the wake of a disastrous love affair.”
Desperately my eyes darted over the roof. There was nothing I could use as a weapon, nothing with which I could alert the sleeping household. All I could do was delay him and pray that someone would notice Herron’s empty bed and come in search of him.
If only Herron were not so helpless; if only he could overpower my father while I distracted his attention. But he lay shivering in the rain, his eyes unfocused, spent and broken. I could not rely on him for help. My father had flung one of the flaccid arms around his neck and in a moment he would pick him up and carry him to the parapet.
“What about my mother?” I blurted, and he paused.
“Your mother, child, had nothing to do with this,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Not directly, in any case. I suppose you could say that it was due to her that the duke made me a trustee; he felt guilty about completely cutting me off from the family after her death, and he gave me this appointment as a kind of sop. Not a bad arrangement, as it turned out.”
Again he turned to pick up Herron. “How did she die?” I demanded. “Tell me the truth.”
He gave a mighty sigh. “This is scarcely the time to go into the whole painful story, daughter. Suffice it to say that Ambrose was right to blame me—although he had no proof.”
The idea I had scarcely dared to consider rose up before me. “You murdered her for the inheritance you expected, didn’t you?”
“Precisely. And I would have sent you with her, you miserable little brat, if that fool nurse hadn’t arrived so quickly.” He straightened, forgetting Herron in his remembered anger at me, and I felt true fear born in me at the loathing that gleamed in his eyes. “It would have worked so beautifully: push her over the cliff, and drop you after. Two broken bodies on the rocks, and a tragic story. The doting mother finds that her child has wandered to the edge of the cliff, and in a fit of maternal tenderness she rushes to the rescue, only to lose her footing and fall after you.” Now he was biting out the words. “But you, you damned little eel, you were so slippery and quick that I couldn’t catch you to throw over before the girl arrived. So your mother became a suicide, and her family blamed me for it. You cost me more than you can ever imagine.”
A sort of dizziness was creeping over me, a strange feeling that there was no longer ground under my feet. So my mother had been denied even that last solace I had imagined for her: she had not run willingly into the welcoming sea, and had felt nothing but fear in her last moments of life.
“You are a monster,” I whispered.
He smiled. With his hair sleeked down by the rain his face had the sudden appearance of a death’s-head. “What an extraordinary coincidence,” he purred. “Those were your mother’s last words. How fitting that they should be yours as well.” He advanced on me, and I backed up hastily in sudden fear—but at least I was leading him away from Herron now. “Perhaps you will go over the roof with your beloved. That would be very touching: having discovered the young duke’s suicide, you were too distraught to live, and flung yourself over the parapet after him. Yes, that should do nicely.” Then, to my horror, he turned and moved back to Herron. Again he reached for the limp form and gripped him under the arms. “But you’ll have to wait your turn.”
His hold slipped, and he dropped Herron with a thud, cursing the rain. I knew that once he started dragging him to the parapet I would be able to do nothing. Now, before I could think, before I could hesitate, I ran at him. I put my head down and my arms out, and plowed into him with all the force I could muster.
He slipped, skidded, struggled for balance, and for a moment he could have fought me back; but as I pushed against him I felt a great surge of power from some u
nknown source, and I knew that something I could not see was adding its strength to mine.
Together we forced him over, until without a sound he vanished over the parapet.
Chapter Nineteen
After a moment I moved toward the edge of the roof to look down.
“Careful,” came a voice, and strong hands on my shoulders restrained me. The suddenness made me start, but he held me securely. “Best step away from the edge,” Charles advised me, his voice steady and calm. “You’ve seen how dangerous it is up here. We can’t afford to have you slip and fall like your father.”
“Like my father?” I repeated stupidly.
“You needn’t reproach yourself, Oriel; I saw you try to save him. Not that he deserved it.” He was wrapping something around me, something warm and dry, and I realized abruptly how cold I was. Rainwater plastered my nightdress to my body, and the chill seemed to bite into my bare feet. All of a sudden I was shivering.
“Is he—?”
He went to the parapet and looked down. Then he nodded.
It seemed impossible; my father could not be defeated so quickly, with so little outcry. But Charles was already turning his back on the parapet and the sight that lay below.
“Can you help me with Herron?” he asked. “We need to get him inside, and warm, or he’ll be in danger of pneumonia on top of everything else.”
I had almost forgotten Herron. He was in a pitiful state, his whole body shaking from the cold; his eyes were glazed and blank, but they were fixed on me.
Cold as I was, I felt a wave of something colder flood through me. What if he had seen? Would he tell Charles I had deliberately pushed my father?
For the moment I did not have to worry; he was in no condition to talk. Charles flung another blanket around him—he had come well prepared—and raised him to a sitting position. I hurried around to take Herron’s other arm and draped it across my shoulders. As we lifted him to his feet, his head fell forward, his eyes closing; he had lost consciousness again. The two of us half supported, half dragged him across the roof toward the door. It was a slow, precarious progress, the rain-washed roof slick under our feet.
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