“Yes, indeed, of course,” said Eliza, her words coming out in a tumble. “Thank you, Mr. Hornsby!” She grabbed his hand and pressed it.
It was at that moment that Lady Malcolm and Sir Arthur entered the inn, and Eliza soon had cause to regret her impulsive response.
“Elizabeth Malcolm!” said her mother, with all the pent up frustration of a late summer thunderstorm.
“We can speak of this later,” said Sir Arthur, intervening before the full force of his wife’s displeasure should break upon them. “The carriage has been righted.” They went outdoors to continue their journey, Eliza feeling in her bones that something else had been righted as well—albeit, now too late.
28
Red dust filled the air as Henry’s boots hit the ground in the churchyard. He tied his horse’s reins to an iron ring and strode quickly to the door of the parsonage. Then, he forced himself to rap on the door before his will deserted him.
He was expecting the housekeeper, but the door was answered by Reverend Ansel himself. “Henry!” His nose was still a little swollen from his summer cold, but his diction was clearer than when Henry had seen him last. “What can I do for you, my boy? Or should I say ‘your grace’ now?”
Henry took off his beaver and fingered the brim. “I think ‘boy’ is quite appropriate in this case, Reverend, since what I’m here to talk about is something that happened a long time ago.”
The big man’s eyebrows beetled in confusion, but he threw the door open wide and asked Henry into the parlor. In a moment’s time they were seated on a pair of facing chairs for the conversation that Henry had been dreading nearly half his life.
“Now, what is it?” said the Reverend, folding his legs, leaning back, and clasping his hands over his stomach.
Henry stiffened in anticipation. “You will recall, sir, that ten years ago or so, your daughter suffered an injury during a storm.”
The Reverend lost his relaxed air. “Of course I recall that—I could hardly forget such a thing.”
“Did you…did you ever discover the cause of her injury?”
“Why, yes. She fell from a log and tumbled down the river bank. Walter Turold was there—he saw it happen.”
“He was not the only one there, sir.” Henry felt the small weight on his lungs turn into a massive boulder.
“Oh?” Reverend Ansel leaned forward.
“I was there as well,” said Henry, “and what you may not know is that I…contributed to the accident, though that was not my intention.”
The Reverend breathed in sharply, which led to a fit of coughing. “What do you mean?” he asked, after he had recovered himself.
Henry swallowed, fighting hard against all those years of avoiding the subject to bring it out into the open. “I taunted her. I told her she would never be brave enough to climb on that log. And she—she responded as I knew she would. She did what I dared her to, and she fell.”
The Reverend opened his mouth and stared dumbfounded for a moment. “Henry, I never—”
“I made Walter swear not to tell. And, as far as I know, he kept the promise.”
“That he did,” said Reverend Ansel, placing his large hands on his knees. His breath became labored. “He bears many things in silence that belong to others.”
“It was wrong of me!” said Henry. “Wrong of me to do it, wrong of me to hide it, and wrong of me to ask him to hide it too. I should have come to you that day. I should have come to you any day these ten years since. But now, so late, I am here at last. Can you forgive me, sir, for the harm I did your daughter?”
The Reverend sighed. “I already have, my boy. You did wrong, but nothing nearly as wrong as what…what others have done.”
“Then you are not angry with me?”
“No more than I am angry with God. He created the circumstances—the temptation, the storm, our own frailty. What else could we have done but what we did?”
Henry shifted uncomfortably. He felt—he knew—that he could have done very much differently. He stood up, hat in hand. “I thank you, sir, for your kindness. I will trespass no further on your time.”
Reverend Ansel looked up absently. “Good-bye then, my boy. And remember, with what measure you mete it, so it will be meted to you.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Henry, and he saw himself out of the room. As he untied his horse from the iron ring, he breathed a silent prayer of thanks. There was nothing keeping him here at Harrowhaven any longer, and once he made sure his mother felt secure, he could return to London where Mr. Maurice’s offer was gleaming like a lamp post in the fog.
* * *
After a cursory search through the village, Pevensey decided that Cecil must not have been feeling strong enough to ride out after all. He mounted his horse and proceeded at a brisk trot to the young magistrate’s manor house. Miss Cecil met him at the door. “My brother was overly optimistic—his head is much worse today.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “But I see you have news, Mr. Pevensey, so I will provide no further descriptions of his invalid state.”
“You are very perceptive, Miss Cecil,” said Pevensey, barely able to keep from bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. “Upstairs?” He reached for the banister.
“No, I let him remove to the parlor.” She led the way through a set of doors to the small room where he had first seen her last night. “But I should warn you—he has covered the floor with crumbs.”
Pevensey immediately spotted Cecil lying back on the couch, his curly black head encompassed by a fresh bandage and propped up with embroidered pillows. “Pevensey,” he groaned, laying a half-eaten biscuit on a nearby tray. “I thought I would be back in the saddle today, but when I tried to come downstairs….”
“You almost fell and smashed your head again,” said his sister succinctly. “And you are under doctor’s orders not to try to get up. How fortunate that Mr. Pevensey is willing to visit to give you the news.”
“What news?” demanded Cecil. “Turold?”
“Still in absentia. However, this morning I was presented with an interesting answer to Miss Cecil’s question from last night.”
“Her question?” Cecil blinked.
“Yes—why would Turold fire the second shot? And the answer, of course, is: because he didn’t fire the first one. He needed to discharge his pistol before anyone came upon him.”
“Then the first shot was fired by whom?”
Pevensey cast a sideways glance at Miss Cecil and decided that nothing needed to be kept from her. “Reverend Ansel.”
“What?” Cecil lifted his head too quickly and, giving a yelp of pain, lay back again against the pillow. His sister sent a glare in his direction, easily interpreted as a command to mind his injury. “But he was in Dealsby Cross during the hunt.”
“So we thought. But it turns out that Curate Gray conducted the wedding there. The Reverend was supposed to perform the office, but he turned back on the road—too ill to continue.”
“And when he reached the parsonage—”
“—what a sight awaited him. His housekeeper locked in the broom closet while his simple-minded daughter was being led out the door by the reprobate duke.”
“He would have tried to stop them.” Cecil began to position biscuits on the tray to show the locations of the players in this drama.
“Yes, there must have been a struggle.”
“The Reverend would have been unarmed.”
“But Rufus was not.” Pevensey moved the Reverend’s biscuit closer to the duke’s. “And Ansel seized his pistol.”
“And when the duke refused to let go of his daughter—”
“He shot him in the back!” said Miss Cecil, the pitch of her voice heightened with the excitement.
Pevensey and Cecil stopped the staging of the biscuits to look at her. “Exactly so, Miss Cecil,” said Pevensey, “an
d I daresay Turold rode up just as Rufus was falling face first into the dusty churchyard.”
“Turold would have apprehended the situation immediately,” said Cecil. “Dismounted, seen that his friend was dead, and known exactly why.”
“The Reverend would have taken the girl inside, then panicked a little. He had just killed a man. He put the duke’s pistol somewhere in the house. The girl saw it.”
“Yes!” said Cecil. “She tried to tell us about it, remember? And he pretended that he had found it in the woods. And of course he had cleaned it by then to disguise that it had been fired.”
“Whose idea was it,” asked Miss Cecil, “to pawn it off as an accident?”
“Turold’s, I wager,” said Cecil. “He hoisted the duke’s body back onto the duke’s horse and led it away from the parsonage toward the clearing. Then, when he was far enough away, he dumped it in the clearing and discharged his own pistol.”
“And shortly afterwards, you arrived,” said Pevensey, “to hear his cock and bull story about firing into the bushes at a stag.”
“And Turold was happy to continue calling it an accident—until we started to ask too many questions. He surmised that the truth was soon to come out, so he preempted the discovery by making his own false confession—and battering me with that fire iron to make his escape. Pevensey!” said Cecil triumphantly. “You’re a wizard!”
Pevensey’s freckled face split into a grin. He was not one to seek congratulations, but he would not object to them being offered, especially in front of the admiring Miss Cecil.
Cecil wrinkled his nose. “And now that we know all this—what do we do?”
Pevensey sighed. “Aye, there’s the rub. Do we have any proof strong enough to counter Turold’s confession?”
The three stared at each other for a long minute.
“No,” said Cecil, gnawing his lip. “Unless the housekeeper gives evidence, I’m afraid that we do not.”
“And I rather doubt that she saw the thing happen,” said Pevensey. “For all she knows, Turold did shoot the duke.”
Miss Cecil straightened in her chair. “I cannot believe Reverend Ansel would let someone else take the blame for his actions! He would hardly hang for defending his daughter’s virtue.”
“No, the worst that could happen would be transportation to Australia,” said Pevensey. “And even that is hardly likely. If he pleads clergy and the judge is favorable, he’ll be excused with only a branding on his thumb.”
“But if he is transported,” said Miss Cecil, “what would happen to Catie?”
“I suppose that they have no other family in England?”
Miss Cecil shook her head.
“Then she would most likely be placed in an asylum.”
“A horrid thought!” said Miss Cecil, with such feeling that Pevensey suspected she must have toured an asylum at some point and known firsthand the atrocities that lay within.
“Turold must have concurred,” said Cecil, “which is why he laid himself on the altar as the sacrificial lamb.” He put a hand to his bandage and patted it gingerly. “Lud, if he hadn’t decided to baste my head with that fire iron, I should feel a great deal of admiration for that fellow.”
“What will you do?” asked Pevensey.
Cecil cleared his throat. “Do? Yes, I suppose I am the magistrate in charge of the case. You’ve provided your expertise, and now the judgment is left with me. I...I need to think on it a while. I am not sure what good a public accusation against Reverend Ansel would do—the whole county has already accepted that Walter Turold is the murderer. But at the same time, it feels a little out of place to hear divine services read by a man who killed your neighbor.”
“Indeed,” said Pevensey. It was not the first time he had followed a case to its conclusion only to find that conclusion too difficult to prove in a court of law. “I shall leave the matter in your hands.”
They were capable hands, that he knew. Cecil, although inexperienced in the world of investigation, had proven himself eager and apt to learn. He would sort the case, as much as it could be sorted. Pevensey had no doubt of that.
“Is this good-bye then?” said Cecil, propping himself up on the sofa. His dark eyes opened wide with regret.
Pevensey smiled. “I think it must be. Now that the case is solved, Sir Richard will be needing me back at Bow Street. Murder might be the exception here in Sussex, but in London it’s as common as coal.”
“Well then,” said Cecil, swinging his legs over the side of the sofa and attempting to rise, “I must shake your hand.” A twinge of pain soon aborted his efforts.
“Lie down, you silly gudgeon,” said his sister, pushing him back into a prone position. “I’m certain you can shake Mr. Pevensey’s hand just as well from the sofa.”
Pevensey came forward and offered his hand. “It has been a pleasure, Cecil.”
“We do not always go to town for the season,” said Cecil, pumping his hand with enthusiasm, “but we were thinking to go this Christmas. I shall look you up at Bow Street.”
“Yes, of course,” said Pevensey smoothly. He had no expectation of such an event occurring. It was not easy to sustain a friendship—or even an acquaintance—with one who moved in such a different sphere of society. “Good day,” he said, and moved toward the door before any further awkwardness or sentiment could intervene.
Miss Cecil followed him into the hallway. “It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. Pevensey.” She offered her hand.
Pevensey felt a powerful twinge of surprise. “Thank you, Miss Cecil,” he said, taking her hand stiffly. He dropped it an instant later, too disconcerted by her frank blue eyes to retain his usual polish. It was fortunate the case had not required him to interview this young lady. He was entirely unable to read her motives—or to read his own at the present moment.
A shadow in front of the door darkened the light coming in through the leaded glass windows. “I believe you have visitors, Miss Cecil,” said Pevensey. It was not a difficult thing to deduce.
“The Bertrams, I daresay.” She lowered her voice. “It’s too early for a morning call, but they must think their errand as important as catching a murderer.”
Pevensey looked at the overblown flower arrangement still gracing the entryway. “Or perhaps they are attempting to catch someone else.”
“Indeed,” said Miss Cecil dryly. She opened the door. “Oh, Mrs. Bertram!” she said enthusiastically. “And Miss Bertram!” They took hands as women do and cooed their delight at seeing one another.
Pevensey slipped out the door past the broad-bosomed matriarch who was just beginning to express her concern for “poor, poor Mr. Cecil” and their inability to wait any longer to call on the invalid.
Miss Cecil’s eyes must have followed him out the door, for before it closed he heard Mrs. Bertram chortling, “What’s this, Edwina? A new beau?” And the more proper Miss Bertram gasping, “Mother! What are you saying? That’s the Bow Street Runner, down from London!”
Pevensey jammed his beaver onto his head with force. Exactly. He was the Bow Street Runner down from London—and London was where he was going, the place where a man like him belonged.
Part Three
29
Eliza turned over the letter in her hands. She had not expected Adele to write at all, but here it was, two months since their stay at Harrowhaven and she had already received two letters from her. This last one was Adele’s official notice that she would be coming to town soon to purchase her trousseau. The Duchess of Brockenhurst had relented and agreed to curtail the official period of mourning for Rufus so that Adele and Stephen could celebrate a Christmas wedding.
There were other tidbits of news as well. The Reverend and his family had moved away from Sussex—to America, Adele had heard. Poor Miss Ansel, thought Eliza, feeling a pity for the girl she had never met. No doubt r
umors had spread about her and the duke, and her father, unable to protect her by any other means, had given up his living to his curate to re-settle elsewhere.
The Ansels were not the only ones being forced to re-settle. Eliza laid the letter down on the window sill—the only flat surface left in her room besides the bed. These were the Malcolms’ last few days in their town house, their last few days in London. The house had already been put up for sale and most of their belongings sent to an auction house. A distant cousin had offered them the use of a cottage in Northumbria, and so they were preparing to go north before the cold weather set in, traveling by post and with only a few trunks containing their dearest possessions.
Adele was coming to London, but by the time she arrived Eliza might very well be gone, with little chance of ever returning to town or, indeed, to society. The disappointment of missing Adele was further enhanced by the whispering thought that where Adele was, Henry might be close. Eliza had no doubts that he was in London right now—probably had been for some time—but they orbited different suns now, and with Eliza’s father descending into bankruptcy and genteel poverty, there was little likelihood that, without contrivance, their paths would ever cross again.
Contrivance—Eliza meditated on that word for a moment, as she had for the eight long weeks since they had returned from Harrowhaven. How many times she had wished that she’d never begged for Ned Hornsby’s opinion on Henry’s character! Better to think him a scoundrel now that he was lost to her forever than to know what a misfortune it was for her to lose him.
She placed Adele’s letter in her reticule and pulled out a well-worn calling card from the handbag. Her thumb ran over the black lettering that spelled out Henry’s title: Duke of Brockenhurst.
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