The Duke's Last Hunt

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  Again there was silence. Henry shifted in his chair. “I admit it. I noticed that Rufus had left the main body of the hunting party. I split off from the group to look for him. But when I reached the clearing by the church, he was already dead and others were there before me.”

  “Not I,” said Turold hoarsely. He glared at Henry as if he were guilty of the greatest betrayal. “I followed the stag. I shot at the stag.”

  “Interestingly,” said Pevensey, “there were two shots fired that day. Multiple witnesses recall it. The two shots were about five minutes apart. One of the shots took place in the clearing. That was the second shot. But the first shot took place several hundred yards away, in the dusty churchyard where Rufus was readying himself to ride off with Catherine Ansel.”

  Henry was taken aback. In his imaginings, he had always seen Walter Turold stalking Rufus through the woods, and taking a coward’s shot in the clearing before his brother ever reached the parsonage. “How do you know that, Pevensey? The body was found in the clearing.”

  “The clearing is full of soft, clean grass,” said Pevensey. “And yet, the front of the duke’s clothing was covered with a thick layer of dirt, the same kind of red dirt kicked up by carriages and hay carts all over the yard outside the church and the parsonage. When he first fell to the ground, it was not in the clearing.”

  Cecil nodded and finished Pevensey’s explanation. “We believe that the body was moved afterwards to the nearby clearing where a second shot was fired to give verisimilitude to the ploy.”

  Henry let out a soft sigh and sat back in his chair. Had Catie Ansel actually been on Rufus’ arm when Turold fired? Had Turold demanded that Rufus release her, and then fired only as a last resort? He closed his eyes. Would he have done any differently? He opened his eyes and stared at Walter Turold. What agony of the soul he must be suffering—must have already suffered, ever since that fateful decision to pull the trigger was taken!

  Pevensey had not yet finished applying pressure to the thumbscrew. “It is clear to me that both of you gentlemen knew of the duke’s plan, and that both of you gentlemen considered it to be immoral. It is also clear that both of you struck out alone from the main hunt and have no alibi as to your whereabouts during the time of the shooting. I know that you have admitted to firing the accidental shot, Mr. Turold,” continued Pevensey, “but what is not clear to me is whether you were working alone or in concert with—”

  “Yes!” said Turold, the word exploding from him like a cannonball. “I admit it. It was I, all alone. I shot Rufus in cold blood. No one else had anything to do with it.”

  Henry’s heart accelerated. There it was—the confession from Turold’s own mouth. And instead of recalling past grievances and claiming him as an accomplice, the man had exonerated him. He felt a surge of overwhelming elation mingled with sorrow.

  “Surely not cold blood,” Cecil urged. “Your desire to protect Miss Ansel’s virtue must provide some extenuating circumstances.”

  “Please,” said Turold, swallowing. “Please. I will give you a written confession. But I don’t want Catherine Ansel’s name brought into this. I don’t want her talked about across the countryside as a flirt and a strumpet. She didn’t know what she was doing. How could she?” Turold looked around the room. “How could she?”

  Henry gripped the arms of his chair. It was true. The poor girl might never outlive the whispers and the calumny. But if she was not mentioned, if that part of the story was left untold….

  Pevensey looked Turold squarely in the eyes. “I’ll make no bones about it, Mr. Turold. If Catherine Ansel’s name is not brought into it, it’s very likely that you’ll hang.”

  Surely, he must understand that!

  “Then so be it,” said Turold. “Fetch me pen and paper, and I’ll write out my confession.”

  * * *

  Eliza and Adele finished their walk through the garden maze just before the morning sun became unbearably hot. For Eliza, the maze was full of unpleasant remembrances, but Adele had insisted on guiding her through every hidden corridor in the greenery.

  “Dear me,” said Adele, fanning herself as they entered the French doors at the back of the house. “It is a good thing I wore my bonnet, or I should have as many freckles on my nose as you.”

  “And what a misfortune that would be,” said Eliza dryly. She was surprised to find that Adele’s comment failed to mortify her as it certainly would have a week ago. Could it be that the two were becoming friends?

  “I’m parched!” said Adele, tossing the previously touted bonnet onto a little mahogany table by the entrance. “Let’s have some ratafia and rest a bit.”

  “Lemonade,” said Eliza, the voice of wisdom. She was not about to drink alcohol-laced punch at eleven o’clock in the morning.

  Eliza followed Adele down the hallway to the morning room. Adele threw open the doors, only to discover that most of the seating was already taken—Mr. Pevensey and Mr. Cecil on the sofa, Henry in one of the wingback chairs, and Mr. Turold at the table, signing his name at the bottom of a lengthy letter.

  Four pairs of eyes turned in their direction, and Eliza had the distinct impression that they were intruding on some sort of solemnity that was forbidden to the fairer sex. The gentlemen rose to their feet perfunctorily, Walter Turold taking the opportunity to fold his letter in quarters and hand it to Mr. Pevensey.

  “What now?” asked Henry.

  “Now we wait for Constable Cooper,” said Pevensey.

  “Shall I send a groom to the village to summon him?”

  “No, we were just at the village a half hour since, and I told him he’d be needed at Harrowhaven this morning.”

  “Do I have your leave to go up to my room and pack a portmanteau?” asked Mr. Turold. Eliza’s lips parted. Apparently, Rufus’ friend was preparing to leave the house.

  “Of course,” said Cecil. “You give your word you’ll not try escaping, yes?”

  Mr. Turold pulled at a piece of hair that had fallen out of his queue. “Where would I go?”

  At the word “escaping,” Eliza’s eyes opened wide. Had there been some new development in the investigation? Adele stared openmouthed at Turold. He turned on his heel and exited the room. The curly-haired Mr. Cecil followed him out.

  “Lud, what is happening here, Henry?” demanded Adele.

  Henry’s jaw set into a hard line. “Walter has confessed that the shooting was no accident.”

  Adele let out a shriek. “He murdered Rufus? Whatever for?”

  Eliza saw the red-haired investigator and Henry exchange a glance. Neither of them responded.

  “I say, what’s going on here?” asked Stephen Blount, peeking around the door of the morning room and seeing the somber gathering.

  Adele breathlessly explained the new information. Stephen’s eyes bulged, and he rubbed his invisible sideburns in disbelief. “But we still don’t know why he would do such a thing.” She stamped her foot. “They were friends!”

  Stephen offered her his arm, and she took it. It was probably the closest thing to taking hands that they could do with Henry in the room. Eliza found herself staring at Henry’s hands. She blushed and looked away. She was certainly not going to allow him to take her hand again.

  The butler’s form materialized. “Mr. Pevensey, the constable is here to see you.” The investigator disappeared without a word.

  “I’ll tell Mother,” said Adele, and within seconds she and her escort had disappeared, leaving Eliza alone in the morning room with Henry.

  Henry walked over to the door which had swung shut and opened it half way. For a moment, Eliza thought he was leaving the room too—but no, he was simply lending a little more propriety to their tête-à-tête.

  “I am very sorry about your brother,” said Eliza. She stood uncomfortably, refusing to sit down and thereby signify that she wanted a conversation t
o take place.

  “So am I,” said Henry. His stern face lifted into a wry smile. “But at least the investigator no longer believes that I murdered him.” He gave her a direct look. “Nor you either, I hope.”

  “Oh!” said Eliza, taken aback. “I’m certain I never believed such a thing, my lord.”

  He seemed pained to hear her return to formal address, but he did not insist that she call him Henry.

  “You are not as curious as Adele,” he remarked, “demanding to know why this happened.”

  “It is not for lack of interest. I can see you do not want to say. Or perhaps it is not fitting for gentlewomen to hear.”

  “Both of those things are true. And yet”—Henry gave a slight gesture of his hand and she found herself sitting down without a shadow of protest in a nearby armchair—“I think it only right that you should know. I would prefer you not to share these details with Adele.”

  He took a seat opposite her, leaning forward and looking at her intently. “Rufus,” he said, “was a scoundrel. I know you may not believe me—I know it seems that I have every reason to try to tarnish his reputation with you—but the fact of the matter is that he was a libertine through and through. That woman you saw here yesterday was his former mistress, and on the day of the hunt, Rufus was actually hunting something else besides a stag. He was attempting a seduction of a young woman in the neighborhood.”

  “Which young woman?” asked Eliza. It was an uncomfortable question, but she felt that—as the late duke’s betrothed—she had the right to know.

  “Catherine Ansel, the Reverend’s daughter.” Henry paused. “I think you overheard him discussing her with Turold in the maze that one evening.”

  “Oh…yes,” said Eliza, swallowing. She had thought they were discussing her own self. Perhaps she was not the simpleton Walter Turold had referred to. And perhaps she did not have just the style of beauty that Rufus Rowland preferred. “She was not quite right in the head, Adele said.” Eliza shuddered at the thought of Rufus taking advantage of the poor girl. “Why? What happened to her? Was she born like that?”

  Henry stood up and paced over to the window. A moment passed. “I suppose the polite thing to do would be to say that I don’t really know and pass on from the subject—but I find myself unable to give half-truths to you, Eliza. I have never shared this with anyone before, but since you ask…Catie Ansel’s condition is entirely my fault. Several years ago, when she was really little more than a girl, I encountered her in the forest, and—”

  Eliza’s face drained of color. She stood up from her chair. “Thank you for your frankness, Lord Henry, but please, go no further. I understand that you consider me to be of greater maturity than your sister, but I have no desire to hear such tales.” The half-open door called to her like a beacon in a hurricane. She darted toward it and disappeared into the hall, hurrying breathless through the saloon, and up the stairs to her room.

  What horror had he been about to confess? Rufus was a scoundrel, he had said…. “But what about you?” her heart demanded. “What about you?”

  26

  Pevensey walked pensively over to the entrance hall. The confession from Walter Turold had been unexpected, and somehow…incomplete. There were so many details still unresolved. But perhaps it was best to take the man into custody and sort those details out later.

  Constable Cooper was waiting in the entrance hall, his bushy gray sideburns nearly doubling the width of his round face. “Ah, Mr. Pevensey,” he said. “I thought I’d come round this morning before the inquest and see if you have made any progress.”

  Pevensey could tell that it would delight the man to no end to find that no progress had been made. He kept quiet.

  “I still have that statement by Mr. Turold,” said the constable helpfully, “should you be needing it.”

  “Very kind of you,” said Pevensey brightly, “but I’ve taken a new statement from Turold this morning, and he’s confessed that it was no accident. He murdered the duke.”

  “Dear me!” said the constable, his jaw falling open in shock. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Are you sure he’s quite sure?”

  “The confession was made of his own free will.”

  “Well then,” said the constable, “I suppose you’ll be wanting me to hold him for the time being.”

  “Yes, exactly so. He’s upstairs packing his things as we speak. Mr. Cecil should be bringing him down shortly.”

  Pevensey took a seat on the bench in the hall, and Constable Cooper followed suit. Out of the corner of his eye, Pevensey saw Miss Malcolm heading through the saloon, a look of distress on her face. Henry Rowland emerged from the morning room half a second later, his eyes on Miss Malcolm, but as soon as she disappeared, he stalked away in the other direction, presumably to his study.

  Pevensey shook his head. There was clearly an attraction between these two, but also an impediment that stood in the way. The girl’s mother was not in favor of the match—he had overheard as much yesterday—and the girl herself seemed undecided about something, hesitant to trust. He snorted. But who was he to fault someone for that? He had never been one to lower his defenses for anyone….

  Constable Cooper initiated some small talk, and Pevensey reluctantly exercised his conversation about the weather in Sussex, the condition of the roads, and his opinion on the Prince Regent’s diet. What on earth could be keeping Cecil and Turold? It was not as if they were packing a woman’s trousseau.

  After a quarter of an hour had elapsed, Pevensey signaled for one of the nearby footmen. “Could you show me where Mr. Turold’s room is?”

  It was the loquacious footman who had gone on leave the day of the hunt for his sister’s wedding. He responded with alacrity and even a little show of excitement. Apparently, word of Turold’s confession had already spread through the domestic staff. When they reached the door, the footman stood back at a discreet distance.

  Pevensey knocked, but there was no response. He tried the door—locked.

  “Who has keys to this?” he demanded.

  “Mr. Hayward, Mrs. Forsythe—”

  “Get them now!” said Pevensey, his tone clipped and urgent.

  The footman broke into a run, making for the servants’ staircase. It was not more than two minutes before he returned, thrusting an iron ring of keys in Pevensey’s hands. The butler—stately Mr. Hayward—was only ten steps behind, his lined face glistening with the exertion of ascending the stairs so rapidly.

  “This one,” said the butler, reaching for the correct key. Pevensey put it in the lock.

  He entered the room slowly, with the two domestics peering over his shoulder. There was no sign of Turold.

  A man’s body was lying prone on the floor near the bed. Pevensey knelt down and turned it over. Cecil!

  He was still breathing, but unconscious. Pevensey saw something wet on his black curls and touched his head. His fingers came away red. Turold must have struck him with something hard.

  The fireplace poker lay nearby.

  While Pevensey examined Cecil, Hayward and Frederick searched the small room.

  “The window is open, Mr. Pevensey,” said the butler.

  Pevensey wiped his hand on a handkerchief and stood up. Hayward was right, the window had been opened and propped up, the space large enough for a man—especially a lithe, athletic one like Turold—to slip through.

  How far was the drop? Pevensey walked over to the window sill and looked down. It was a goodly distance, but there was grass below, and if he had lowered himself down by his arms first, it might have done no more than jar him. But then again, perhaps the open window was only a ploy—perhaps Turold had exited the bedroom through the door and hidden himself somewhere in the house.

  “Have you notified all of the staff about Mr. Turold’s confession?” asked Pevensey.

  “No, sir,” said Hayward. “I was n
ever instructed to—although tongues wagging as they will, it may have spread to most of the downstairs servants by now.”

  “But probably not to the stables,” said Pevensey. If Turold had left the house, Gormley would have had no warning to deny him the use of his horse. The fellow could have twenty minutes’ start on them.

  He looked back at Cecil, torn between running to the stables to give chase and looking after the needs of the fallen. Friendship won out. “We need a doctor. Now.”

  “Yes, Mr. Pevensey,” said Frederick. He darted out of the room and ran down the corridor.

  “Help me, Hayward,” said Pevensey, and together they lifted Cecil onto the bed.

  * * *

  Henry sat down heavily. He had tried—for the first time in ten years—to bare his breast about that awful day. And Eliza had not even stayed to hear the whole of it. He took a deep breath. He had never considered the fact that he might someday find the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with and fail, through no fault of his own, to gain her good opinion.

  He stretched and rolled his shoulders. What was he doing here anyway? The investigation was over. Once Rufus was in the ground, he could return to London. That was where his life was now.

  The letter from Mr. Maurice was still in his pocket. Taking it out, he slid a finger under the flap and broke the seal. No doubt this was a summons to return to his duties.

  An urgent knocking sounded on the door of his study. Without waiting for his answer, Mrs. Forsythe threw open the door.

  “What is it?” asked Henry, standing up from his desk as he read the concern on the housekeeper’s face.

  “Oh, Master Henry!” she said, reverting to his childhood name. “Mr. Turold’s attacked Mr. Cecil and run off.”

  Henry dropped the letter on the desk and made for the door. “Where’s Pevensey?”

  “Here,” said Pevensey, just coming from the saloon into the corridor. “Cecil has a serious head injury. I’ve sent your footman for the doctor. Mrs. Forsythe, if you could tend to him until then—Hayward’s putting some bandages on him to stop the bleeding. Brockenhurst, I need you to help me with the search.”