Home Is the Sailor

by Lee Rowan

  THE ARMY had a term for this sort of mission: forlorn hope. When a wall had to be breached, they asked for volunteers, and anyone who survived usually got a particularly fine reward, easy to offer because there were so seldom any survivors. The point of such an attack was to create a breach in the enemy defenses, no matter what the cost.

  Of course, in the Navy they never bothered to ask for volunteers. We few, we fortunate few….

  David knocked on the door of his father’s study. When he heard, “Come in!” he pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the lion’s den.

  “What is it?”

  David took a breath, released it, and spoke as calmly as he could, wasting no time in preliminaries. “Father, I have reason to believe that Ronald had a hand in Virginia’s accident. I have also received word, from a highly placed source in Military Intelligence, that Ronald was given leave to come home at Christmas and that he apparently did leave London in plenty of time to arrive long before he made his appearance.” He put the paper down on the desk, facing away from himself, and watched as his father quickly read it through.

  For a moment there was nothing but silence. Then: “You sent a letter questioning your brother’s word? You dared?”

  The words fell like heated shot in the quiet of the study, with the same devastating effect as that evil missile. David had not faced his father’s fury since that long-ago day when he’d left the family home to join the Navy, but it had lost none of its scorching heat. “Someone had to, sir. I cannot help that the answer was one we might not have wished to hear.”

  “And just what do you expect me to do with this… scurrilous rumor?”

  “Not rumor, sir. Reliable information, from a completely discreet and well-placed source in Intelligence. This is as sound as any briefing sent to the King himself.”

  “Your brother’s whereabouts are no concern of yours!”

  The fury hit him full force, but there was something behind it, and David was shocked to realize what it was. His father was afraid. The anger was real, but it was a screen concealing fear. “On the contrary, sir, they most certainly are. I was taught, from as far back as I can remember, that justice is every man’s responsibility. I was taught that when any man conceals the truth for personal gain, he shares in the guilt of the offense.”

  “This is not—”

  David plowed ahead. “I was taught that by my father, sir. Have the rules of justice changed so much since I was a child, that evidence suggesting murder may be ignored?”

  “Silence!”

  David took a deep breath, feeling as though he’d just lit the fuse that would set fire to all his bridges, and tried to speak in a normal tone. “Father, did you know that the window in Ronald’s room had been left unlocked the night Virginia died? That there was water on the windowsill, and footprints on the ground beneath?”

  “And you chose not to tell me?”

  “At first there was no time, and afterward… would you have listened?”

  “To such a tale? No, I would not.”

  “Not even if Amelia could swear to you that she also saw the footprints? There may still be traces there if you wish to look for yourself. Captain Marshall saw them too, though since you do not know him as I do, you cannot know that he would never falsify—”

  “You have discussed our personal affairs with a stranger?”

  There it was again, that fear, even louder than the anger this time. “I have discussed them with the one person in this house, apart from my sister, whom I knew to be intelligent, wholly discreet, and willing to deal with me as a rational adult.”

  “Why are you trying to paint your brother as a murderer?”

  “Sir, why are you trying to absolve him? I am trying to find out the truth of my brother’s death, and the death of his wife, and an attempt to destroy the child who might have been his heir—your heir. Virginia’s maid was knocked unconscious with a single well-placed blow. Can you not see how ludicrous it is to imagine a woman dosed with sedatives, who had been accustomed to sleeping heavily through the night, suddenly running amok and attacking her own maid?”

  His father waved a dismissive hand. “She had gone mad.”

  “She knew a hawk from a handsaw, Father, and she was too drugged to get out of bed—the doctor told me as much. But there’s more. We now know that Ronald vanished from London in the middle of December, and the innkeeper’s daughter down at the Bull hinted to me that she had seen him during the time he claimed to be with his regiment. And now she’s dead—after vanishing on the same night that Virginia died, a night when Ronald was out of the house—and he refuses to tell anyone where he was. He refuses to produce any witness to vouch for him. Has he ever given you any accounting of his whereabouts?”

  He might as well consider the question rhetorical; his father’s glare said he wasn’t getting an answer.

  He forged ahead. “I suppose there might be some other explanation of their deaths, and Mark’s, that has nothing at all to do with Ronald, but all three within a month’s time seems to me to push coincidence to the very limit of credibility—and it makes me fear for your safety.”

  The Earl was slowly shaking his head, and David knew that he had failed. Worse, he’d shown his hand and gained nothing by it. Should he mention the bullet hole in Mark’s coat? No; that could only mean trouble for Kirby, and perhaps destruction of the evidence that would be needed for an exhumation order. He knew, now, that he was going to see this to the bitter end, even if it meant taking that evidence to London, to the Temple Bar. He was going to see Mark’s murderer brought to justice.

  “You traitor,” his father said in a low voice full of revulsion. “You vile, unnatural creature. If I did not know your mother so well, I would say you are no son of mine.”

  “Say it if you like,” David said with a recklessness born of despair. “That’s how you’ve always treated me, anyway. But before you denounce me, sir, tell me one thing. Tell me what happened to Ronald’s wife Lenore!”

  He waited to a count of five, but he could have counted to five thousand and received the same response. He left the room quickly but with as much dignity as he could muster, closing the door rather than slamming it. He shook his head as he passed the breakfast room where Will and Amelia hovered just inside the doorway, his footsteps picking up speed as he went up the stair and down the hall. They swiftly followed him upstairs and into his room, a serious social gaffe on Amelia’s part, but one that mattered little to them at the moment.

  “Did you hear any of that debacle?” he asked.

  “A bellow or two, at the very start,” Amelia said. “Nothing more. Why did you not call us in?”

  “It would have done no good, and only been more trouble for you. He may ask you about the footprints beneath the ivy, if he stops fuming long enough to consider what I’ve said. I don’t expect he will, though.”

  “He disregarded the evidence?” Will asked.

  “Will, the only thing he cared about was that I had dared to question Ronald’s precious alibi. I kept your name out of the matter, except as someone with whom I’d discussed the evidence—and as witness to the footmarks beneath the window.”

  “And the coat—”

  “I never mentioned that. We may need it later. But his reaction was exactly what I’d expected—he’ll prevent a scandal if it kills him. He is furious that I doubted Ronald’s alibi or spoke about any of this to you, and he seems determined to believe that Virginia, in the last stages of pregnancy and with a dose of laudanum in her that would tranquilize an ox, got up and brained her maid before flinging herself down the stair!”

  His tongue seemed to be running miles ahead of his brain, probably the result of having had to hold it for the past couple of weeks. “I think I ought to call Tobias to bring down our sea chests and start packing them. As soon as His Lordship gets over being speechless with rage, he’s likely to order us out of the house and abjure me to darken his door no more.”

  “Oh, Davy,” Ame
lia said.

  “Yes, and I apologize to you especially—he’ll probably have Beauchamp back here in a flash and add yet another codicil to his will casting me out into the coldest ring of Hell.”

  “And what will happen should we leave?” Will asked. “We cannot. In all conscience, we cannot leave.”

  “You may not have a choice,” Amelia said. “Davy, can you teach me how to use a pistol?”

  “I can and will,” he answered. “But not well enough to keep you safe. I suppose I could call Ronald out. That’d be a pretty problem, wouldn’t it, no matter which way it fell out.”

  Will shook his head. “Not worth the risk to you. If it comes to that, I’ll challenge him. Yes, and I’ll tell your father who wrote that letter too. But I think we have one more angle of attack. Think, Davy. We have evidence enough to take this over your father’s head, but there is another person who might be interested in hearing what we know about your brother Ronald.”

  “Yes, I know. The coroner. But I cannot take that route unless there is absolutely no other choice. I cannot and will not do that to the rest of my family.”

  “That was not the man I had in mind,” Will said.

  “Who, then?”

  “Your brother Ronald.”

  “What?”

  “As I see it, that’s our only chance.”

  “What do you mean? Are you saying we should try to convince him that the evidence against him is so overwhelming his only hope is to abdicate or confess? He’d never do it, Will. He’s too full of himself—and he knows he’s left no witnesses.”

  “You have the word of unimpeachable witnesses that he was on leave well before Christmas and had claimed to be going home. You have my word—which should be worth something—that the barmaid hinted he’d been in the neighborhood long before he showed himself here. And you have physical evidence enough to warrant an exhumation.”

  He knew that, but was suddenly reluctant. “Evidence I daren’t use, not right now. Will, my mother has been through too much already—and so has my father, though he’d never admit to feeling the strain.”

  “I must agree with my brother on this,” Amelia said. “We could never force our parents to dig Mark up again, after—” She stopped suddenly and pressed her hands tightly against her face. After a moment, she said, “I cannot even speak of it… think of it. No.”

  Will watched her with sympathy but shook his head. “I understand how you must feel, even though I believe it might be necessary. But what I had in mind was nothing like that. Davy, would you say your brother is a vain man?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “That was my impression as well. Think of this: he has accomplished his life’s ambition. He has cleared a path to title and fortune, eliminated everyone who stood in his way… and he dares not tell a soul. I think he would love to boast of what he’s done, so long as he felt sure he would never be held accountable.”

  “That’s possible,” David admitted. “Still—”

  “He underestimates you. What if you were to goad him into admitting his guilt, under circumstances that would let him feel certain he could do so—alone, just the two of you—so that it would be your word against his if you were to accuse him to anyone else?”

  “But it would be,” Amelia objected. “It would be just like that—and Father would side with Ronald to avoid a scandal. What good would a confession to Davy do, other than make him the next target?”

  “Quite a lot, perhaps… if someone else were to overhear the conversation. Ourselves, for instance. Though it would be better still if we were able to enlist a disinterested third party such as Dr. Fiske, or the Vicar.”

  “Not Peter Newkirk,” David said. “He’s dependent on my father for the living. He might do it, if he had only himself to consider, but he mentioned to me that his wife has just given him a son. I’d hate to set his conscience against his sense of duty to his own family.”

  Will nodded. “Very well, then. What about the doctor?”

  “If we can find him and bring him here without anyone the wiser? Possibly. But how? No, I think your idea might work—and damn me if I don’t want to see if I can get him to admit it—but I do not see how we’ll get an objective witness.”

  “Perhaps Jane?” Amelia suggested.

  “No. She’s known to dislike Ronald, she is your dear friend, and people would, I am certain, believe she would lie to support you—” He saw her brows draw together and said hastily, “No, Lia, I don’t believe she would, not in something this serious—but more to the point, she’s as dependent on Father as Newkirk is. Perhaps if Gilliam were at home, or if you could persuade Anne—but I don’t see how Anne could keep still if she heard us arguing. Who does that leave? Mama and Genie, and I’d never expose either of them to anything like that. It would be bad enough for them to hear third-hand.”

  “The one who needs to hear it is Father,” Amelia said. “He must face the truth.”

  “Don’t waste your time,” David advised her.

  “It will be bad enough for everyone in your family,” Will said soberly. “The only good that can possibly come out of this is that your family—particularly your father—will be safe. How long do you think he’ll live if Ronald grows impatient for the position to which he considers himself entitled?”

  Amelia said nothing. David said, “Not long. The first chance he has to arrange an accident, once you and I have left the place.”

  “That’s how I see it,” Will said. “If you undertake to pry a confession out of your brother and succeed, we shall be honor-bound to act. If you choose not to try, he has won.”

  “And if I try and fail?”

  “There is still the coroner. We can turn what evidence we have over to the Crown and hope that justice will prevail. But I am certain you would succeed. He’s not afraid of you, Davy—and he should be.”

  Chapter 15

  THE EARL of Grenbrook ran his estate in an orderly way, and that sense of order extended to the arrangement of his home. His own office adjoined a small library where his personal reference books and the records of the estate were kept, some of them dating back centuries. On the other side of that library was another room that had been set aside as Mark’s office.

  Lieutenant David Archer stood at the far end of the hall, as tense as the moment before an enemy ship came into range. The door latches were in good working order; he had checked them the night before and knew that Will and Amelia could pass silently from his father’s office and into the library, where they would be able to overhear what occurred in the other room. Will had wondered if he should be armed; David had advised against it, but he now wondered if he’d been foolish to do so.

  He really didn’t have much faith in their plan. But he had nothing better to offer, and he knew that as soon as his father found a way to remove him and Will from the house without upsetting his wife, they would have lost the last chance to settle this without dragging the family into the harsh light of scandal.

  At least Ronald had been intrigued enough—or perhaps nervous enough—to agree to this meeting. Perhaps he was not as confident as he seemed.

  It was time to stop stalling. He had to keep the hall clear for a few moments, in case Ronald looked out to be sure they were alone. Will and Amelia would not follow until he’d been inside for a full minute.

  It took all his resolution to make his feet move down the hall, but as he laid his hand upon the doorknob, he was pleased to see it did not tremble.

  “Good afternoon, Ronald.”

  “It is indeed.” Ronald sat in his elder brother’s chair as though it had always been his by right. “All the questions are settled at last. What was it you wanted to tell me, little brother?”

  “That you have not been nearly as clever as you think.”

  “Oh, but I have.” He waved a hand at the well-furnished room. “I have been playing the good boy for days now, listening to the endless drivel about crop rotation and the bloodlines of cattle, being drilled o
n the names and jobs of a herd of faceless peasants. I ought to be congratulated.”

  “You ought to be arrested,” David said. “I know you killed Mark. I know where, and I know how.”

  Ronald managed a convincing laugh. “That’s nonsense.” He rose suddenly and darted first to the door of the library, then to the hall door. “Alone? You’re braver than I thought.” Returning to his chair, he leaned back a little. “And more stupid.”

  “You were seen in the village shortly before Mark’s death—long before you officially arrived home.”

  “So you say. I’d love to see you prove it. In any case, there were plenty of people in the village before his death. Are they all murderers?”

  Will and Amelia should be in the next room by now. David heard nothing, but he knew he could rely upon them. “Did any of the others hope to gain what you did? Did anyone else lie to conceal his presence? You chose your accomplice unwisely, though. She could not resist bragging to me that she had seen you here before you made yourself known. You were a little tardy there, Ronald. How was it you let her live so long?”

  “If we were speaking hypothetically—”

  “Which we are not—”

  “Isn’t it obvious? The opportunity to dispense with that risk could only occur when her father was away for the night. But really, is it so surprising that I would take my time in returning to this stifling den of respectability?” He shook his head. “Sorry, little brother. Prior to announcing my presence, I took a few days to visit an old acquaintance who was inclined to be obliging, for a price. And while I’d prefer not to flaunt my conquests in the bosom of my family, I think you overreach yourself in concluding that I’m guilty of fratricide.”