“A shortcut? How would I know of such a thing? I am not native to this county.”
“Ah, but you had stumbled upon it earlier in the week, when your borrowed horse threw a shoe in the woods and you walked it a quarter mile to the blacksmith’s to have it reshod.”
“So it was you spying on us!” Haro said. “I saw someone walking in the woods, leading a lame horse, but it was too far away to see your face.”
The Frenchman glowered in his direction then turned back to Pevensey. “A pleasant fiction, but one you will never, ever be able to prove.”
“You talked with her on the bridge, perhaps even made one last appeal for her to run away with you. She refused—haughtily, I imagine. You became angry. She taunted you. You could not control yourself—”
“An utter falsehood!” Bayeux ground his teeth together. There was a storm building behind those chiseled cheekbones. Haro glanced at the lines of Bayeux’s coat, trying to ascertain whether the fellow was carrying a pistol.
“We all know what happened next,” said Pevensey, his eyebrows arching superciliously. “Perhaps you did not mean to kill her…just to make her stop talking, stop saying those things you did not wish to hear. When you realized what you had done—that she was no longer breathing—you shoved her away from you. And over the railing she toppled, down through the ice below.”
An inarticulate cry came from Bayeux, and his hands balled into fists. No, he was not carrying a pistol, Haro decided, or he would have pulled it out at this moment.
“You panicked. You had just killed a woman. One might get away with such a thing in France with your ‘Vive la Revolution!’, but here in England such things are investigated, frowned upon, and punished.
“You are a foreigner. You had a checkered, albeit concealed, past with Miss Hastings. You would be suspected right away. You ran from the bridge, leaped onto your horse, and rode through the trees like a madman, stopping just briefly to compose yourself before you reached the blacksmith’s shop on the outskirts of the village.
“You had planned to leave that morning on the post, but there was no guarantee that you could disappear into the warrens of London before your misdeed caught up with you. Besides, as you looked at your pocket watch, you saw that nine o’clock had come and gone, and so had the post.
“You had to create for yourself an incontrovertible alibi, an event that placed you somewhere else at the time of the murder. You remembered an appointment you had made with the stone mason, an appointment that you had decided to forgo when you packed to leave the county. But now you needed this appointment—needed it like old Boney needs his Josephine.
“You found the blacksmith and his brother. You told him several times that it was nine o’clock so that the time would stick like tar in his mind. And when you had wasted enough time looking at samples of stone, you swallowed down your gorge and headed back to Woldwick, prepared to feign shock and surprise when you learned of Miss Hastings’ disappearance or demise.”
“What proof do you have?” Bayeux’s hoarse voice was admitting nothing, but every drop of sweat on his face was a telltale confession.
Pevensey paused. “I think you are aware that the maid, Mademoiselle Mathilde, was both a letter-keeper and a secret-keeper. A blackmailer too, but that is beside the point.” He pulled a sheet of paper out of the pocket of his coat. “The letter that you sent to Miss Hastings on the fateful day—”
Before the Runner could finish his statement, the architect had leaped upon him, seizing his wrist and snatching at the incriminating paper. Pevensey struggled manfully, but the Frenchman had the advantage of him in size. A fire was blazing in the grate on the wall opposite. Haro had no doubt in his mind what Bayeux was intending to do with the letter once he seized it.
He reached into the drawer of the desk that had belonged to his father and thanked God that he had omitted to lock the case which held the loaded pair of pistols.
***
Eda came out of Lady Anglesford’s room and glanced down the stairs. The Bow Street Runner had left at dawn for London—or at least that was what Mrs. Alfred had told her. But not ten minutes ago, she had been looking out an upstairs window and had seen a man ride up with an unmistakable pile of bright red hair on the top of his head. She had excused herself from attending on her aunt as quickly as she could and advanced to the top of the stairs to survey the situation. No one was in the entrance hall below, but as she darted down the stairs, she could see that the door to the study was ajar. Filtering out into the hall came the sound of men’s voices raised in altercation.
Torin, who had popped out of the adjacent library, converged upon Eda just as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “I say, there’s some sort of row going on in Father’s study.” A series of thumps now resounded through the entrance hall, as if something—or someone—was being thrown against the wall.
The cousins looked at each other conspiratorially, and then in tacit agreement, stepped forward to place their ears against the crack. They were just in time to hear the words, “Stop, monsieur, or I shoot!” followed by the earsplitting crack of a gunshot.
33
Pevensey winced at Lord Anglesford’s words. When one’s limbs are entangled with an opponent’s, the threat of a gun being fired at close quarters is not an attractive proposition.
A bullet exploded from the dueling pistol. Pevensey winced again, just in time to feel the architect jerk away from him and go slack. A stream of blood began to pour out of Bayeux’s left shoulder and gurgle down his dark coat. Lord Anglesford, it appeared, was not only an innocent man, but also a man with a cool head, a good eye, and a level hand.
The door to the study flew open, and there were Miss Swanycke and the earl’s younger brother. “Haro! Are you all right?” demanded the black-haired beauty, her face even whiter than its normal fair complexion.
“Yes,” replied Lord Anglesford, coming around the side of his desk to examine the Frenchman who had fallen to the floor, “but I suspect Monsieur Bayeux is not. Torin, send Jimmy for Dr. Stigand.”
“And for Sir Robert,” added Pevensey. It was time to contest that forged letter and present the magistrate with the case against the real murderer.
“I’ll go myself,” said Torin, disappearing to accomplish the task at hand. Miss Swanycke disappeared as well, and Pevensey could hear her giving orders to the servants in the hallway and allaying fears about the gunshot they had all heard.
Bayeux began to moan, and Pevensey shook his head. Clearly, the man was unused to physical pain. Pevensey had been shot in nearly the same place once—and still managed to overpower his assailant and bring him to justice.
The disputed piece of paper, now crumpled and torn, was still in Pevensey’s hands. He folded it carefully and returned it to his pocket.
“Once upon a time, she really loved me,” said the architect, gritting his teeth against the pain. He tried to prop himself up on the elbow opposite his wounded shoulder. He looked up at the earl defiantly. “C’est vrai!”
The earl’s face clouded with some emotion. Guilt? But over what, Pevensey wondered—over injuring Bayeux’s shoulder or injuring Bayeux’s heart?
Miss Swanycke reappeared with a bowl of warm water and some cloths and walked slowly towards the wounded man.
“But she would not admit it,” the Frenchman groaned. “‘I was naïve,’ she said, ‘and you were quick to take advantage.’ It was like hearing her father’s rant all over again.”
Miss Swanycke knelt on the floor beside the Frenchman and motioned for the earl to ease the architect’s shoulder out of the coat that was covering the wound. The scene was perfectly framed by the fireplace in the background, and Pevensey pulled out his sketchbook to record it.
“I daresay you think me a fortune hunter too,” Bayeux panted savagely, a comment more directed to Miss Swanycke than to the two men.
“No,” she said softly. “I think you something worse—a murderer. But also, a murderer who needs his shoulder dress
ed. Come, hold still and let me tend to this.”
Pevensey looked up from his sketchbook with increased admiration for Miss Swanycke. She had heard none of the evidence he had presented, but she had apprehended the essential point as soon as she entered the room.
He wondered if she might prove useful now in more than just leech craft. Bayeux’s attempts to seize the letter from Pevensey’s hand was an indication of guilt, but the case against him would be easier if they could draw out a confession while he was still in this mood to dwell on the past.
Miss Swanycke seemed to know what was needed and pressed on. “How does it feel—to know that you have killed the woman you loved?” She pulled the bloodied white muslin shirt away from his skin and pressed a cloth on the oozing wound.
The architect did not answer, but Miss Swanycke was relentless. “If you had waited half an hour, Haro might have come upon her first. He would have jilted her, you know—ended the engagement for good. You would have come upon a very different woman on that bridge, a woman ready to throw herself on your bosom instead of heap your head with scorn.”
The Frenchman pulled away from her ministrations with a fierce cry. “Mon dieu! Do you have to remind me of that? Is it not the very thought that has been dancing through my dreams and turning them to nightmares?
“She told me that she was going to be the toast of London! ‘A countess,’ she said, with an earl at her beck and call. ‘A life with you would be misery,’ she said. ‘What can you possibly have to offer me?’”
Pevensey caught Miss Swanycke’s eye and nodded. It was enough.
***
After Eda had bandaged up the wound as best she could, Haro called in the footmen and had them carefully relocate Monsieur Bayeux to the drawing room. There the footmen stood guard over him, waiting for Dr. Stigand and Sir Robert to make their appearance.
The other three stood silently in Haro’s study for a moment. “A clean shot,” said the Bow Street Runner approvingly, and Haro colored at the praise. He was surprised himself at how quickly his hand had grasped the pistol and how easily his mind had made the decision to shoot.
“I did not want him to destroy that letter since it was the only tangible piece of proof against him.”
The investigator smiled. “This letter?” He pulled the folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Haro.
Haro unfolded it and found the paper as white as eggshell inside. “But…what does this mean? Does Mademoiselle Mathilde really have a letter from Bayeux to Miss Hastings?”
“Oh, I’m certain she has one or two of them in her possession…as William Hastings and his pocketbook know all too well. But not, I think, the one from the morning of the murder. That one Miss Hastings must have burned upon receipt.”
“So you—”
“—assumed the existence of the letter and pretended possession of it for Monsieur Bayeux’s benefit. His readiness to believe me confirmed that I was right to do so.”
Eda let out a squeal and clapped her hands in delight.
Haro laughed. “Well done, Mr. Pevensey! Well done!”
“Thank you, my lord,” said the red-haired man with a bow and a smile of his own.
“I know Mr. Hastings has already recompensed your travel expenses and paid your fee, but I wish I could reward you for your time spent here and your unwavering commitment to discovering the truth. Alas,”—Haro held out a pair of empty hands—“the Emison estate is on the verge of dissolution.”
“I quite understand, my lord,” said Pevensey, and Haro could feel a true warmth in those words. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, despite the unpleasant circumstances, and should your lordship ever need my services again, send your card to the office at Bow Street.”
Haro hoped fervently that such an occasion would never arise, but he thanked the man anyway.
“It occurs to me that there may be a few shillings in the Harding estate to help recompense you, Mr. Pevensey.” He took a few steps over to his desk, crumpled up the outdated letter to Sir Robert, and taking a new sheet of paper, scribbled a few quick lines. “My father was the executor of Great-Uncle Harold’s will, and I believe I inherit that duty.” He folded the paper, melted a bit of wax on it, and stamped it with his seal. “I hardly expect there will be much—after all, Uncle Harold lived in an attic off the generosity of others for the last twenty years—but perhaps there are a few pounds left to the family that we could bestow on you.”
He wrote a direction on the letter and handed it to Pevensey. “Since you’re London-bound, would you deliver this letter to Mr. Godwin, our solicitor?”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Pevensey, taking the letter.
Haro offered him his hand as well, and he shook it with feeling.
Pevensey then offered his hand to Eda—a bold gesture, thought Haro—but she gave him her own hand gladly, and he brought it halfway to his lips before letting it go again. “Your servant, Miss Swanycke.”
He looked at Haro with a twinkle in his eyes. “I take it you’ll not be looking for another heiress to replace Miss Hastings?”
“I think I’ve learned my lesson on that score,” said Haro. He cast a sidelong glance at Eda, and her mouth curved up into a soft smile. There was a conversation waiting to be had there, one that he hoped would be ending with a kiss. If only Sir Robert would come quickly so he could finish the unpleasant side of this business.
***
As he departed, Jacob Pevensey crossed paths with Sir Robert in the paved carriage drive, and by the time Sir Robert approached the front door, he was already fully apprised of the new state of affairs. Torin, who had ridden back in the carriage with him, helped him up the steps, and the excitement of the moment seemed to ameliorate the usual pain from his gout.
“’Pon rep!” he said, pumping Haro’s hand and congratulating him on the fine shooting. “I always did say those French are up to no good! That confession from your uncle was very suspect I thought, very suspect indeed. It doesn’t surprise me at all to think that Frenchman planted it in his room. It had some curious turns of phrase in it, I think, that could only have been written by a foreigner.”
Haro hemmed at that, but did not contradict the notion outright. He had no wish to bring his mother into the conversation, or the fact that her maternal instincts apparently outweighed her concern for veracity.
William Hastings, who had been closeted in his room all morning, emerged to inform his host that he would be departing for the Rose and Thistle and unlikely to return to Woldwick in this lifetime.
“That Pevensey’s a good man,” said Sir Robert, congratulating Hastings on the latest discovery.
“Eh?” asked Hastings, painfully oblivious to the news.
“You haven’t heard?” Sir Robert bellowed with delight. As was human nature, he loved to be the bearer of new tidings. “It was that French fellow all along! He made an appointment to meet your daughter at the bridge, and…well, you know what happened after that.”
The color in William Hastings’ face slowly drained into the purple veins bulging on his neck. “Bayeux? My god! Bayeux! I should have known.” The entrance hall began to explode with epithets. “Fiend seize it! Where is he?”
His eyes darted to the drawing room door, but Haro intervened, unwilling for a third death to take place at Woldwick in one sennight. “I’m sorry, but it’s impossible for you to see him now. Sir Robert has not yet interviewed him.”
“Now see here!” Hastings thundered, trying to push past the earl.
“Please, Mr. Hastings,” said Haro, catching his arm. “Please! Let the law take its course.” Hastings tried to pull away, but Haro refused to let go of him. They struggled silently.
Then, suddenly, all the strength seemed to disappear from the mill owner, like water which has run out through the hole at the bottom of a bucket. Haro felt the man about to collapse and put his other hand out to steady him. “It’s over, sir. Take heart—it’s over.” He helped the man to a seat on the bench. And though
he could not swear to it, he thought he saw the mill owner’s eyes glistening with a thimble’s worth of unshed tears.
***
Sir Robert questioned the accused with the footmen still present as guards. The loss of blood had weakened Bayeux enough to accept the inevitable, and he made a full confession. Henry and George later regaled the downstairs servants with all the lurid details, and Eda overheard many whispered conversations among the housemaids with phrases such as “secret trysts” and “lovers in every sense of the word.” No wonder William Hastings had been so eager to keep his daughter’s past relationship a secret!
Dr. Stigand arrived soon after the interrogation, bringing with him the village constable who would take the prisoner into custody. He unbandaged the wound, cleaned it, and extracted the bullet, complimenting Eda on the good work she had done to stop the flow of blood. “Although I think you deserve more compliments,” said Eda to Haro, “for drawing the blood in the first place!”
She could tell that he appreciated the praise, and the look he gave her was both tender and ardent. She felt heat rise to the top of her cheekbones. Yesterday, the murder of Arabella Hastings had been the only thing to stand between them. Today there was nothing, absolutely nothing, and all she needed to do was to wait for him to close the space.
William Hastings departed for the Rose and Thistle as he had earlier announced, although without the feelings of high dudgeon that had reverberated from him earlier that week. Eda noted that he made his farewells with a tone approaching politeness, and that even though relations with him could not be called cordial, she would no longer consider him an implacable enemy of the Emison family—which was just as well, since rumor had it that the importance of manufacturers was on the rise in England. He was still determined to stay in the village until the inquest, but there was little doubt that Philippe Bayeux would be arraigned for murder, given the evidence that Pevensey had compiled against him.
To Wed an Heiress Page 24
