Her mind flew to Lady Anglesford, alone in her chambers. “Your mother,” she said suddenly. “She’ll be beside herself. We should go to her.”
“You’re quite right,” said Haro, drawing her hand to his lips again. He stirred on the sofa just as a pair of footsteps entered the drawing room.
Henry cleared his throat. “You’re wanted in the hall, my lord. The magistrate wishes to speak with you.”
***
Despite Eda’s concern for Lady Anglesford, it was two or three hours before they were able to go to her and offer some solace. Dr. Stigand had given his opinion of accidental death induced by hypothermia, but despite the absence of foul play, Sir Robert informed Haro that, as magistrate, he must needs see the place where the body was found. Perhaps he felt such a pilgrimage necessary to make up for the missed excitement of three days ago.
Haro wanted nothing more than the opportunity to grieve in peace, but he did his duty as head of the family and lord of the manor, leading the stocky magistrate out into the woods. Eda insisted on coming too, holding onto Haro’s arm as they stepped over frozen underbrush and ice-coated earth. Sir Robert groaned aloud every few paces, reminding them all of the torture he was enduring from his gouty leg.
The leafless forest was a homogenous wilderness, and it took Haro and Jimmy some time to work their way back to the place where the body had been discovered. When they finally located the spot, the magistrate wished to stand near it a while for a moment of silence.
“Very sad business, my boy,” said Sir Robert, clapping Haro on the shoulder. “Very sad, indeed.” He lowered his voice. “And the other business…how is this Bow Street Runner getting on? I’ve had to entrust the investigation to him, you know, being so incapacitated with this dashed leg.”
Haro took a breath, not certain how to best answer this sort of question, and, in the interim, Eda interjected her own assessment. “More’s the pity, for he’s bungling it badly, Sir Robert. He seems convinced that Haro’s the only possible suspect simply because Haro had the misfortune to find the body.”
“Tut, tut! That is unfortunate,” said Sir Robert. He had known the earl since Haro was a child, and his own son Stephen was of a similar age. “I’ll have to speak to the fellow about the wisdom of casting a wider net. Poachers, I should think. Has he considered that?”
Haro shrugged. “He holds his cards close to his chest. I suspect he’s considered a great many things.”
“Hmm. Well then,” said Sir Robert, quite finished with viewing the scene of the accident. He smacked his cane on the ground and turned around sharply. “Let’s return to the house, shall we?” He followed up that question with a howl of pain. The cane, it seemed, had landed on his gouty foot.
“Please, allow me!” said Haro, bending over nearly sideways on his right to allow the shorter man to lean on his shoulder. At a nod from the earl, Jimmy came to support Sir Robert on the other side, and so between them, they were able to return him to the house in a far shorter time than it had taken them to find the scene of Uncle Harold’s demise.
“Ah, doctor,” winced the magistrate as they passed through the grand old columns to enter the front door of Woldwick. “I’m afraid I will need you to attend on me once again.”
“But of course,” said Dr. Stigand, fully aware of his importance to his most prestigious patient. “There is nothing left for me to do here. Shall we return in your carriage?”
“Indeed,” said Sir Robert. “Go on, then, my boy.” He gestured Haro away as he sat down on the hall bench to rest. “Your groom can alert my coachman that we are ready and we shall be on our way. Where has that Pevensey fellow gotten to? A pity—I wanted to speak to him again.”
30
After bidding farewell to the doctor and the magistrate, Haro and Eda climbed the stairs to look for Lady Anglesford. She had never shown an especial fondness for the old man, but to have the last of her family gone—it would be a blow.
The door to Lady Anglesford’s sitting room was open, and Eda and Haro would have gone inside had not a surprisingly cheerful voice interrupted them.
“Ah, my dears, there you are!”
“Mama! What are you doing?” asked Haro, seeing her come out of the door that led to the attic stairs. It was a steep flight of steps, not one that Eda would have expected Lady Anglesford’s nerves to enjoy.
“I’ve been going through Uncle Harold’s things, searching for some clue to this senseless tragedy. I found this.” Lady Anglesford held out a folded letter.
Haro took it and unfolded it while Eda peered around his shoulder. The ink seemed very new, as if the letter had been freshly written in the last day or two. It was certainly not a memento from the long ago days of Uncle Harold’s adventures.
My dear family,
If you are reading this letter, it means I am no more. It is only right that you should know what transpired three days ago. I encountered Miss Hastings at the pond. She said some things that angered me. I attacked her in rage and her body fell from the bridge. I am sorry for what I have done and hope that you can all forgive me for a momentary lapse in judgment.
God bless you all.
Harold Harding
Eda gasped. Haro’s eyes widened as he finished reading the letter out loud. “You say you found this in his room, Mama?”
“Yes, on the seat of his favorite armchair,” said Lady Anglesford.
“And what are you going to do with it?”
“Why, give it to that Bow Street Runner, of course. No, rather, to Sir Robert. He is the proper person to see it. Has he gone yet?”
“We’ve just said farewell to him,” said Eda, “but his carriage may not have come to the door yet.”
“I shall have Henry go see,” said Lady Anglesford, taking the letter back into her hand and darting down the stairs with unexpected agility.
A frown began to gather on Haro’s face like storm clouds on the distant horizon. “This is all very peculiar. Why would he write ‘three days ago’? It would have been two days ago if it were written on the day he disappeared. And what an insipid way to write a letter! I hardly think Uncle Harold would have made his last confession thus.”
Eda swallowed. She had noticed the same discrepancies as Haro had, but she had also gotten a hold of something that he did not yet seem to grasp—if Harold Harding was deemed the killer of Arabella Hastings, then Harold Emison would be acquitted of the deed.
“You were in his rooms this morning,” continued Haro. “Did you see the letter there? On the armchair, like Mama says?”
Eda pursed her lips. She had not only been in his rooms this morning but also on the morning in question. The story of him throttling Arabella was undoubtedly a fake, as was the letter. But she could hardly fault Lady Anglesford for trying to save her son at the expense of her uncle’s reputation. “Oh, I can’t remember,” she said pettishly. “I was looking for Uncle Harold, not a sheet of paper.”
“Do you think it was Mama that forged it, or someone else? The handwriting seems feminine to me….”
“Why don’t we leave it to Sir Robert to decide whether the letter was forged? After all, the evidence is supposed to be presented to the magistrate, not to you.”
Haro glared at her. “Did you write that letter?”
“No.” That, at least, was true. If she had written the letter, it would have been a far more convincing cheat.
“Hmm…well, come on, then. Let us see if Mama managed to catch Sir Robert before he left.”
***
Pevensey pulled out his sketchbook. It was the only possible recourse when witnessing a scene such as this.
Lady Anglesford, who had apparently overcome the indisposition that kept her bound to her chambers, had flown down the stairs like a canary and sent the footman out the front door to halt the carriage that had just begun to roll away.
“My dear Lady Anglesford, what is it?” Dr. Stigand had demanded. He had returned to the house to reconnoiter in place of Sir Robert, who wante
d nothing more than to prop his foot up on the cushions of the coach. Pevensey wondered if these country doctors always feared the worst when receiving such an urgent recall—the gamekeeper accidentally discharging a loaded gun, the cook’s hand slipping when cutting the shallots.
“A letter!” Lady Anglesford had declared, clutching her heart in a fit of histrionics. “You must read it. Sir Robert must read it!”
And so the suffering magistrate had been unearthed from the carriage and helped into the house once again. Pevensey was now enjoying the prospect of Sir Robert, seated in the drawing room, his leg propped up on the decorative pillows that matched the sofa, reading and re-reading the sheet of paper Lady Anglesford had handed him.
“Dash it all!” he said, forgetting Lady Anglesford’s feminine presence in his excitement. “It’s a confession!”
“So it would appear,” said Dr. Stigand, taking his own look at the note. His enthusiasm was slightly more moderated, and when Pevensey had a chance to look at the letter, he understood why. One did not have to be familiar with the late Harold Harding’s writing to recognize that this was indeed a forgery. Pevensey made no comment, however, deciding to wait for Sir Robert to give his verdict.
“He was an odd old fellow, very odd, I always said. Always walking the woods at strange times of day and saying peculiar things. I’d like to say this comes as something of a surprise, but no, I had qualms about him in the past. I am so sorry, Lady Anglesford. You were right to bring this letter to me.”
Pevensey grimaced. It was such a handy solution to the problem of Arabella Hastings’ death. He wondered if the rest of the villagers would see it that way as well and exonerate the young earl at the expense of a man who was now safe from the punishment of the law.
Dr. Stigand said nothing to stem the tide of Sir Robert’s conclusions. Here was one example, at least, of village nepotism papering over the truth.
“What’s this? What’s this?” demanded William Hastings, having correctly guessed from all the uproar in the hallway that something was afoot.
“It is a celebration, good sir!” proclaimed Sir Robert. He tried to stand using his cane but then winced and sat back down. “We have found the culprit in the death of your daughter.”
It was Pevensey’s turn to wince. Hopefully no one would think he was included in the “we” statement which Sir Robert had just issued. His sketch of Sir Robert’s face was coming along nicely, a perfect blend of benevolence and pomposity.
The magistrate eagerly explained the exciting news of Harold Harding’s confession.
“My God!” said William Hastings, reaching out a preemptory hand for the letter. “Give it here!” His greedy eyes raked it up and down, but in the end, his own conclusions were identical to Sir Robert’s. “So! It was that raving lunatic that did it—God rot his bones!”
“Now, now, Mr. Hastings!” said Dr. Stigand, clearing his throat to remind all the gentlemen that Lady Anglesford was still in the room.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” said the mill owner grudgingly. He shoved his thumbs into the pockets of his wide waistcoat. “Although I daresay you’re glad to be rid of the batty blighter too. It could have been you, Lady Anglesford, on that bridge when the old fellow lost his mind. Who knows?”
Lady Anglesford gave a wan smile. “I do see your point, Mr. Hastings, but you would do well to remember that Mr. Harding was, in fact, my uncle. However much I might deplore certain actions, I do still mourn his untimely death.”
William Hastings snorted, as if the dual emotions Lady Anglesford claimed were utterly incompatible. “Well, I’m sorry the man’s dead too. But only because I wanted to see someone hang for this. And now it looks as if justice will be cheated by frostbite, eh, Pevensey?”
“That depends on one’s viewpoint, I think,” said Pevensey, closing his book on the finished sketch. “But from the Almighty’s perspective, justice is never ever cheated. It’s merely delayed a while.”
“Hmm, quite.” William Hastings yawned dismissively. “At any rate, it looks as if your services are no longer needed.”
“So it would appear,” said Pevensey dryly.
Like the magistrate and the doctor, he had hoped that the young earl would be cleared of the crime—but not at the expense of all evidence, all logic, and all common sense.
***
It was too late to ride into the village that day and catch the afternoon post. Mr. Hastings had paid for Pevensey to switch horses several times on the way up to Woldwick, but no such largesse would be forthcoming for the return journey. No, Pevensey would have to leave his hired horse at the inn and travel inside the posting carriage, or if unlucky, outside of it.
He went down to the kitchen to say his farewells to the staff and was rewarded by some blushes from the cook, a ham dinner, and his own cake. He resigned himself to a quiet evening of packing up his meager luggage and completing some of the unfinished pieces in his sketchbook. He hated to leave a job half-done…although that was what he was doing now, there was no denying it.
He still had no alternative theory to offer as to the murderer’s identity, and that was what made contesting the letter so impossible. Previous experience, however, had taught him that illumination often came when the clouds of confusion were the darkest. That was what made things doubly frustrating, to call off the chase now when the quarry was just on the other side of the hill.
Pevensey’s opportunity to finish his sketches in quiet, however, was cut short by the arrival of two unexpected guests throughout the course of the evening.
The first was none other than Harold Emison, the Earl of Anglesford. Pevensey opened the door to find the earl’s fair face looming several inches above his own. “My lord,” said Pevensey with a bow. “What can I do for you?”
“Do you mind if I come in?” said the earl, smiling awkwardly. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Of course,” said Pevensey, infusing his voice with cordiality. He had assumed his investigation was checkmated, but here was the tiniest of possibilities that his king could wriggle out of the trap. He gestured the earl to sit down, and since the small room only provided one chair, sat down himself on the bed.
“It’s that blasted letter,” said the earl.
“I thought that might be it.”
“Yes, well, it’s a forgery, I think. No, more than that—I know it is.”
“Of course it is.”
“Oh, so you already know?” The earl seemed taken aback. “Well, then can we have it removed from circulation, before Uncle Harold’s name is tarnished forever?”
Pevensey clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. You see, my lord, you and I know that it is a forgery, but Sir Robert…well, he thinks otherwise. And is quite happy to do so.” He decided to turn the conversation in a more profitable direction. “Whom do you think forged the letter?”
“My mother.”
“Ah.”
“She means well, of course.”
“Mothers always do. In this case, she wrote it to protect…?”
“Me.”
“And you are coming to me to reveal the truth of the matter because you—”
“—have no need of protection. I am innocent. I would swear as much on Holy Writ. And I dislike having my uncle’s name made into a byword simply on the chance that I might be wrongfully accused.”
Up until this moment, Pevensey had strongly wished to believe in the young earl’s innocence. But now, he had no further doubts. When a guilty man successfully weathers a murder investigation, he does not strive to reopen the case by discrediting the evidence pointing to someone else.
But without the countenance of the local magistrate, there was nothing Pevensey could do to continue the investigation. “You’re asking for help in the wrong quarter, my lord. It’s Sir Robert’s door you need to be knocking on, not mine.”
***
Pevensey’s second visitor arrived no more than ten minutes after
his first had departed. Once again, Pevensey bowed. “Your servant, Miss Swanycke.”
“Thank you. I know this is unusual, but…may I come in?”
“If you think it wise. Perhaps we might leave the door ajar?”
She nodded.
“Thank you,” replied Pevensey with exaggerated seriousness. “A man can’t be too careful of his reputation.”
At that, she laughed, as he had hoped she would, a merry laugh that rang out like sleigh bells throughout the cold room.
“Please, do take the chair.”
“Ever the gentleman, I see.”
She sat down with alacrity, and, instead of sitting on the bed, Pevensey took the liberty of putting one hand in his waistcoat pocket while leaning against the wall with his other arm. He expected her to come straight to the point—she seemed that kind of woman—and she did not disappoint.
“I assume you know that letter is a forgery?”
“Yes. Thank you for the compliment to my intelligence.”
“You’re welcome,” replied Miss Swanycke. Her white skin, smooth and polished like alabaster, appealed to him. Pevensey regretted that he would probably never encounter her out of mourning and dressed in something softer than rigorous black.
“But there is something else you wish to tell me, isn’t there?”
“Yes. I’ve agonized over this decision all day. At first I thought it better to keep quiet, for Haro’s sake, I mean—”
Pevensey nodded sympathetically.
“—but I could not still my conscience. Uncle Harold was not a murderer! Such an idea is not only inconceivable but also impossible. I know that you may hesitate to believe me, but I must tell you that I was in his company all morning on the day in question. I had just come downstairs from visiting him in the attic when Haro came rushing back into the house with orders for the servants to drag the pond.”
To Wed an Heiress Page 22
