“I understand, and I wish you every success. But I still don’t see why your cousin Gavin should conceive of such a scheme in the first place.”
“And here I was only moments ago calling you clever!” Miss Kirkbride chided him archly. “I fear I shall have to take back my words.”
“Look here,” Pickett said in some exasperation, “the only reason I can see, particularly in the light of your betrothal, is that he was trying to get at your father’s fortune.”
Miss Kirkbride inclined her head. “Precisely. My faith in your intelligence is restored.”
“But why? Gavin didn’t need it half as much as Duncan did, by all accounts—” He broke off as he recalled a snatch of conversation between Miss Kirkbride and Harold. “I see! You said it yourself!”
Now it was her turn to be confused. “What did I say?”
“As you told Harold—those who talk the most generally have the least. I’ve heard a great deal about ‘poor Duncan,’ whose need for funds was so much greater than his cousin’s, and what a pity it was that he was to be disinherited. But the source of those comments was not Duncan bemoaning his loss, but Gavin expressing his supposed remorse at cutting out his cousin. Lady Malcolm said much the same thing, but I would wager Gavin was her source of information as well. Hmm,” Pickett pondered aloud, “if I were to pay a visit to Gavin’s banker, I wonder what tale he would tell?”
“I daresay you would discover that Gavin’s late wife’s dowry was not so large as he was led to believe, or perhaps he ran through it more quickly than he expected. Gavin enjoys a way of life in London that is frightfully expensive to maintain. Certainly he must have an urgent need of funds to hatch such a scheme as the one he proposed to me.” She looked down at the hands in her lap. “Poor Catherine! We have never had any reason to suppose that her death was anything other than childbed fever, but now I shall always wonder.”
“And yet, believing your cousin to be capable of murder, you said nothing last night when I was summoned to examine your father’s body.” Pickett’s voice assumed a harder edge. “Why did you not tell me of your suspicions then?”
“Quite frankly, Mr. Pickett, I was terrified! I knew my cousin to be capable of perpetrating a hoax for financial gain but, disgraceful as that may be, it is a far cry from murder! Until my father was dead and the doctor voiced his suspicions, I had not suspected Gavin to be capable of that. I feared for my own life. Would he kill me next, in order to ensure my silence? Lady Fieldhurst offered to stay with me, and I wish now that I had accepted her offer. I may still do so, when she returns to the inn.”
Pickett hardly heard the last part of this speech, so taken aback was he by Miss Kirkbride’s casual reference to “Mrs. Pickett’s” true identity.
“ ‘Lady Fieldhurst’?” he echoed, feeling uncomfortably like a recalcitrant schoolboy caught in a lie.
Miss Kirkbride’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “Come now, Mr. Pickett, even theatre people read a newspaper occasionally! The details of Lady Fieldhurst’s brush with the law, and your heroic efforts on her behalf, made for the most lurid reading! It was quite enthralling, I assure you. I know of at least one aspiring playwright who has the fixed ambition of adapting the story for the stage.”
Pickett put his hand to his head and let out a groan.
“Never fear, if it is anything like his previous masterpieces, it will never be published, much less performed. And as for my telling anyone here of her identity, I assure you her secret—and yours—is safe with me. But tell me, do you have enough evidence to hold Gavin for murder?”
“Not at this point,” he admitted. “In fact, unless Duncan has returned with a very good explanation for his prolonged absence, I fear it is he, not Gavin, who appears to be the most likely suspect.”
“I feared as much. I daresay I should go back to the house and await his return, but I cannot rest easy staying under the same roof as Gavin, and I am sure it would arouse all his suspicions were I to remove to the inn indefinitely. If only Lady Fieldhurst would return!”
Pickett hated to break the news to Miss Kirkbride, but he had no intention of allowing Lady Fieldhurst to remove to a dwelling that in all likelihood housed a murderer. In fact, her continued absence was beginning to make him more than a little uneasy.
“Surely she should have returned by now, no matter how compelling the view of the sea,” he remarked. “Shall I accompany you back to the manor? I should like to satisfy myself that nothing has happened to her. The cliff path is quite steep, as I recall.”
“Indeed it is, and I shall be happy to accept your escort,” Miss Kirkbride said, rising and shaking out her skirts. “Shall we go now? I do hope you will forgive me for not confiding in you sooner, when her ladyship assured me that I might.” She slanted a look at him from beneath her lashes. “You should know that she has the highest opinion of you.”
Having reduced poor Pickett to stammering demurrals, she took his proffered arm and allowed him to lead her down the sloping path to the beach. As they traversed the long stretch of sand and shingle, Pickett looked in vain for any sign of Lady Fieldhurst. There was no solitary female form gazing out to sea, but there was a bank of dark clouds piling up on the horizon; apparently Miss Kirkbride had spoken the truth when she predicted a turn in the weather.
As they rounded the headland, however, the weather was forgotten as Pickett caught sight of two figures near the top of the cliff path. The smaller, a fair-haired female in a black mourning gown, struggled in the arms of a man too lithe to be Duncan Kirkbride. Pickett dropped Miss Kirkbride’s arm and set out at a run for the foot of the path.
“Halt!” he shouted breathlessly. “Halt in the name of the King!”
But even as he spoke, both figures went over the side of the cliff, the man’s arms flailing in a futile attempt to regain his balance, the female’s black skirts flapping like the wings of some predatory bird.
“No!” Pickett screamed, desperation lending speed to his feet as he closed the distance to the path.
Gavin Kirkbride bounced twice on the rocks in his precipitous plunge to the beach, but Pickett hardly noticed. His full attention was devoted to Lady Fieldhurst, whose descent had been miraculously halted less than six feet below the point from which she had fallen. Lungs on fire, he scrambled up the uneven trail until he reached the spot; from this angle, he could see that she clung to a gorse bush growing out of the side of the cliff. He flopped down on his belly along the edge and stretched down his arm.
“Take my hand!” he commanded. “I’ll pull you up.”
“Mr. Pickett!” she exclaimed, looking up at him. “It was Gavin. He—he—”
“Yes, I know. You can tell me about it later, but first take my hand and let me pull you up.”
“I dare not let go!” she said, her knuckles white with the strain of supporting her weight.
“You must, my lady. I promise I will not let you fall. No, don’t look down,” he said as she glanced over her shoulder at Gavin lying on the beach below, the incoming tide licking at his broken body.
After some coaxing, she released her left hand and stretched it up toward his. A pitiful three inches separated their straining fingers, but it might as well have been three miles.
“I—can’t—reach!”
Pickett inched closer to the edge, but he dared not go further; he had to have sufficient leverage to haul her up the side of the cliff.
“You’re going to have to lift yourself up,” he told her. “Use the bush for leverage. Pull on it to raise yourself higher.”
She tried, but without success. “I—can’t—” she protested, breathless with exertion.
“I won’t let you fall,” he promised. “Try it again.”
“The boys—will you see that they are returned to their mother? Tell George—”
“Don’t talk like that! We’re going to get you out of here, do you understand?”
He wasn’t at all certain he believed it himself, but he had to be confident
for her sake. Then he heard a ripping sound as the roots of the gorse bush began to give way, and he knew the time for coaxing was past.
“Do it, Julia!” he ordered in a tone he had never used with her before. “Now!”
She too had heard that ominous sound, and knew what it meant. Without further protest, she heaved herself upward. The gorse came free in her right hand just as Pickett’s fingers closed about her left wrist. He rolled onto his back, dragging her with him until she collapsed onto his chest, still clutching the gorse. Trembling with delayed reaction, she pushed herself up on her elbow and looked at him, her face scant inches from his.
“You—you—”
“It’s all right,” he said soothingly. “You’re safe now.”
“You called me Julia,” she said, and fainted dead away.
They lay there together for a long moment, Pickett allowing time for his labored breathing and pounding heart to return to normal while Lady Fieldhurst sought comfort in oblivion. At last, recalling the duty that awaited him at the foot of the cliff, he eased himself from beneath the viscountess. He removed the gorse bush from her unresisting hand and tossed it over the cliff, then scooped her up in his arms. It was an awkward business to rise to his feet thus encumbered, and Lady Fieldhurst began to struggle in his arms. “No—no—!”
“Shhh, hush, my lady,” he said, softly as if comforting a child. “It’s me—John Pickett. I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”
This information apparently calmed her, for she ceased struggling and instead clung like a barnacle. If Pickett found her stranglehold about his neck to any degree uncomfortable, he gave no outward sign.
Slowly, painstakingly, he made his way back down the path with the viscountess in his arms. As he reached the foot of the cliff, he was surprised to discover that Miss Kirkbride was not alone. In fact, she and Duncan Kirkbride were embracing with all the fervor of those who had each believed the other forever lost to them.
“—Heard the screams—” Duncan’s voice came in snatches, carried by the sea breeze. “—Thought it was you—too late—never forgive myself—”
“—So angry with me—I wanted to tell you—” Elspeth’s voice, too, came in fits and starts until it was finally swallowed up by Duncan’s mouth on hers.
Pickett cleared his throat loudly, and the couple broke apart, regarding him rather sheepishly.
“We’ll need some stout men to fetch the body back up to the house before the tide comes in. If you will wait here, I’ll take her ladyship back to the inn and send some men from there.” He glanced at the path hugging the side of the cliff. “That way might be quicker, but I believe her ladyship and I have had our fill of it for one day.”
“ ‘Ladyship’?” Duncan murmured in an aside to Elspeth. “I thought she was Mrs. Pickett.”
“I shall explain later.” To Pickett, she said, “You are quite right. Shall I accompany you? She needs the peace and quiet of her own bed, and with the assistance of the innkeeper’s wife, I shall see that she gets it. You may leave her ladyship in my hands.”
In fact, Pickett was quite content with her ladyship in his own hands. He turned aside Miss Kirkbride’s suggestion with thanks, and likewise declined the usually taciturn Duncan’s offer to relieve him of his burden (which was, in truth, growing quite heavy for so slender a female) and, leaving the pair of them to keep watch over their cousin’s body, set off down the beach.
He had not gone far when Lady Fieldhurst began to stir in his arms.
“Mr. Pickett? Am I—Gavin Kirkbride—is he—?”
“He’s gone, my lady.”
“Is he dead?”
He hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”
“You saved my life—for the second time.”
“Yours is a life worth saving, my lady.”
She pushed away from him slightly, as if suddenly aware of the intimacy of their circumstances. “You may put me down now, Mr. Pickett. I am quite capable of walking, and it isn’t much farther to the inn.” She gave him a shaky smile. “I shan’t faint on you again, I promise.”
He lowered her to the ground with considerable reluctance, even as his arms welcomed the respite. He allowed himself the luxury of keeping an arm about her waist, however, and she made no objection; apparently she was not quite as steady on her feet as she claimed.
“It was Gavin who killed him, you know.”
“Yes.” Pickett nodded. “I know.”
“He killed Neil, the stable hand, too. I was coming to tell you when Gavin found me. I knew I could not save myself, so I made sure he went over the edge with me.” She raised her pale, worried face to his. “Will I have to stand trial, Mr. Pickett? Will it be like it was after Frederick?”
Pickett felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. That decision was entirely up to the Kirkbride family, or what was left of it. Even if they chose to prefer charges—and Pickett knew that it was often easier for families to unite in blaming an outsider than to admit to a fatal flaw in one of their own—there was every chance Lady Fieldhurst would be acquitted once it was proven that she had acted in self-defense. Still, he would do anything in his power to spare her the necessity of standing trial.
“I don’t think so,” he said, but honesty compelled him to add, “But if you do, you may depend on me to testify in your behalf.”
She said nothing, but gave him a wan smile and leaned her head against his arm. In this manner they reached the inn, where their appearance created quite a stir. Pickett was dirty and disheveled, but Lady Fieldhurst was far worse. Her bonnet was gone—presumably blown out to sea—and her tangled hair spilled over her shoulders. Her once-elegant black gown was torn and filthy. More alarming than the state of her clothing, however, were the numerous scratches that scored her hands and arms; the gorse might have saved her, but not without exacting a price.
“I must look as if I’ve been dragged backward through a hedge,” she murmured to Pickett, becoming uncomfortably aware of the dismayed looks being cast in their direction.
Privately, Pickett thought she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but he found it encouraging that she was sufficiently recovered to fret over her appearance. “You’re alive, and at the moment that is all that matters.”
Seeing the doctor wetting his whistle in the tap room, Pickett called to him. “Mr. Reid, you are just the person I hoped to see.”
“Yes, Mr. Pickett?” The doctor set down his teacup. “How may I help you?”
“There is a body at the foot of the cliff adjacent to Ravenscroft Manor. The body is that of Gavin Kirkbride.”
“Good God!”
“I am almost certain he is dead, but you will want to examine him. Take a couple of men with you, for the tide is coming in and we’ll need to get the body back up to the house.” The doctor was already out of his chair, but Pickett detained him. “Before you go, is there anything you can give La—Mrs. Pickett? She tried to take a shortcut off the cliff path.”
The doctor bent his keen gaze onto the drooping Lady Fieldhurst, and Pickett silently blessed the man for both his perspicacity and his discretion. “A good dose of laudanum, ma’am,” the doctor assured her, reaching into his bag, “and I guarantee you will sleep the clock ’round.”
Having seen Lady Fieldhurst dosed with laudanum, Pickett was obliged to surrender her into the hands of the innkeeper’s wife (who promised to bathe her and put her to bed, two tasks for which Pickett was eminently unsuited) and attend to unfinished business at Ravenscroft Manor. Upon his arrival there, he found Duncan Kirkbride eager to make explanations.
“I’m afraid I must beg your pardon, Mr. Pickett,” he said. “I believe I may have made your task more difficult than it should have been. Elspeth has told me all about poor Uncle Angus’s death. I daresay under the circumstances my absence last night must have appeared most suspicious.”
“It did at the time, but since then I’ve realized you could not have known of your uncle’s plan to cut you out of his wi
ll. You had already left the ballroom before he made his announcement, and no one had seen you from that time until this morning on the beach.”
“Nonetheless, I’ll feel better for giving an account of myself. After Uncle Angus announced Elspeth’s betrothal to Gavin, I took myself off for a bout of drinking, the likes of which I haven’t indulged in for fifteen years.” He looked at Elspeth, and Pickett realized that Duncan’s confession was for her ears as much as his own. “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you a second time, of your living here as his wife, of having to see you every day—”
Elspeth laid her fingers across his mouth. “You need say no more, Duncan.”
He took her hand and gently withdrew it from his lips. “Let me finish, love. I finally passed out in the wine cellar, where I slept off the results of my overindulgence. When I awoke at dawn with a pounding head, I took a long walk on the beach to clear my thinking, still having no idea of what happened in the night until I heard the lady’s screams and came running. God help me, Elspeth, I thought it was you.”
“Oh, Duncan!”
Pickett, seeing that the conversation was about to devolve into an exchange of lovers’ vows, interrupted before matters could progress further down paths best explored in private.
“I am afraid that, from an economic aspect at least, you are bound to be the loser in all this, Miss Kirkbride,” he told her. “Your father had no opportunity to change his will in your favor, and with one of his two heirs dead, Duncan now stands to inherit the lot.”
Elspeth and Duncan exchanged a look, apparently having already established (or re-established) the unique ability of lovers to communicate without speech. Then Elspeth gave Pickett a secretive smile. “I don’t believe it will be an insurmountable problem, Mr. Pickett.”
He nodded, returning her smile. “I thought as much. I am glad of it. I fear, though, that Duncan’s gain will be Drury Lane’s loss. May I be the first to wish you happy?”
She held out her hand to him. “You may. And I trust you will allow me to do likewise.”
Family Plot Page 19
