But I can’t give in to the impulse, for I won’t be the only person to suffer from the consequences of my actions. I must warn the others. I run toward the mansion, ignoring the pain in my ankle, wheezing from the smoke that still permeates my lungs. When I burst into the room where I left Mick and Hugh, Mick is finishing the cheese from the tray Olivia brought last night, and Hugh is buttoning the collar of his clean white shirt, his hair damp from his bath. They look at me in surprise.
“Sarah, what’s happened?” Hugh says.
I lean on the closed door, as if to keep out the horsemen of the apocalypse. “I told Barrett.”
“Told him what?” Mick says.
“Everything we’ve learned about the Mariners.”
The concern in Hugh’s expression turns to disbelief. “Including Tristan?”
I nod unhappily.
“You know how I feel about him, and you threw him to the wolves!”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to.” I try to reason away my guilt. “But we couldn’t go on protecting him or the others.”
“Not after one of them tried to set you on fire,” Mick says, although obviously reluctant to take sides. “She’s right. If she hadn’t told Barrett, I would’ve.”
Hugh regards Mick with disgust. “And here I thought you were the last person to condone snitching to the police.”
Here comes a quarrel that could carry us beyond reconciliation, and Barrett must be reporting my information to Reid at this very moment.
Mick takes command. “No more time to talk. We gotta run.” He grabs my satchel and pocketbook, thrusts them at me, and tosses Hugh his coat and hat.
“I have to pack my things first,” Hugh says.
“Better to get out with the clothes on your back than stick around for the shit to hit the wind,” says Mick.
I abandon my big camera and my enlarger; they’re probably unfixable. As we head down the passage toward the door to the back stairs, two police constables call, “Stop!”
Inspector Reid must have sent them after us. As Mick hurries us down the grand staircase, loud, angry voices erupt from the parlor. Servants gathered by its doorway peer inside. We join them, like gawkers irresistibly drawn to a train crash. The guests at the wake have retreated to the perimeter of the candlelit room. In the center, near Robin’s coffin, Lady Alexandra stands facing Inspector Reid, Barrett, and two constables.
“You’ve no right to interrupt the vigil for my son,” she says in her clear, ringing stage voice. She’s dressed in opulent mourning garb—a full-skirted black gown trimmed with crape ruffles, a sheer black veil over her blonde hair, and a heavy, gleaming jet necklace.
“I have every right,” Inspector Reid says in his most authoritative tone. “This is a murder investigation, and I’m in charge.”
I glimpse Lottie among the servants and Tabitha Jenkins and Raphael DeQuincey among the guests; they’re watching the drama with rapt attention.
“I refuse to talk to you without my husband present,” Lady Alexandra says.
Barrett spots me, and his gaze briefly meets mine. His expression is bland, impersonal. My chest aches as if my heart is physically broken.
“Where is Sir Gerald?” Reid says. “I’ve some questions for him too.”
It’s clear that Barrett has told Reid what I said, with the result that Reid has turned the focus of the police’s investigation onto the Mariner family.
“My husband is in town,” Lady Alexandra says.
“Well, then, you can cool your heels until he gets back.” Reid addresses the constables: “Take Lady Alexandra and Miss Jenkins to their rooms. Lock them in.”
Tabitha clutches her throat; her eyes widen with fright. Lady Alexandra huffs with indignation.
The front door opens, and two constables enter the foyer with Tristan and Olivia. The siblings are in coats and hats; Tristan carries two suitcases, and his face is dark with anger above his white collar. Olivia’s hands are cuffed behind her back, and she struggles against the constable who pushes her into the parlor while the other constable escorts Tristan.
“We caught them at the train station,” the constable tells Reid as Olivia tries to kick him.
“Let me go, you bastard!” Olivia shrieks.
Tristan notices Hugh. Emotion flashes in his eyes before he averts them. Hugh keeps his expression carefully blank, but I hear him draw a tremulous breath.
“Well, well,” Reid says with sardonic amusement. “They tried to fly the coop.”
“Not so,” Tristan says coldly. “I was escorting Olivia to her new school.”
I remember that Sir Gerald said he meant to send Olivia away to a finishing school as soon as one was found for her, but the timing is suspicious.
“What a convenient excuse,” Reid says.
“When Daddy hears about this, he’ll kill you!” Angry tears sparkle in Olivia’s eyes.
“Your rich daddy can’t protect you now. You’re a murder suspect.” Puffed up with conceit, the working-class man who’s gained the upper hand over his social superiors, Reid points at Tristan, Lady Alexandra, and Tabitha in turn. “So are you.”
Gasps of shock arise from the servants and guests. Lady Alexandra exclaims, “Are you accusing me of murdering my own child? How dare you!”
Tabitha’s anxious gaze seeks out Raphael DeQuincey. He blanches with fear.
“It wasn’t one of us,” Tristan says coldly. “Robin was murdered by a stranger who climbed up a ladder to his room, carried him down it, and drowned him in the pond.”
“The very same pond where you recently made a secret midnight expedition,” Reid says. “What a coincidence—or was it?”
The color drains from Tristan’s face. He looks around, as if wondering who told Reid about his visit to the pond. I feel Hugh glare at me.
“New evidence has come to light,” Reid says. “We now suspect that Robin’s kidnapping was an inside job.”
Amid another wave of astonished exclamations, Olivia stops struggling. Wariness fills her eyes. Tabitha reaches out her hand to DeQuincey, who sidles toward the back door that leads to the terrace. His panicky gaze is riveted on Inspector Reid.
“What new evidence?” Lady Alexandra demands.
“Robin’s favorite toy rabbit,” Reid says. “Didn’t you wonder where it went?”
Lady Alexandra shakes her head, bewildered.
“It must be at the bottom of the pond,” Olivia says.
“It was found on the back stairs the night Robin was kidnapped,” Reid says. “The kidnapper dropped it there as he carried Robin out of the house. The kidnapper was somebody who lives here. The ladder was planted afterward to make it look like somebody from outside had taken Robin.”
Everyone stares at Reid in shock except Barrett, who’s watching me. When our gazes meet, he averts his eyes and compresses his mouth.
“Where did you get that absurd theory?” Scorn withers Tristan’s voice.
“From Sir Gerald. He found the toy rabbit.”
“Gerald didn’t tell me anything of the sort,” Lady Alexandra protests. Tristan and Olivia nod in agreement.
“He didn’t share that little gem with me either. Only his private detectives.” Reid jerks his thumb at Hugh, Mick, and me. “They were kind enough to pass it along.”
We band closer together, targets of hostile stares from the company. Tristan’s look at Hugh is the same look that Barrett gave me when he learned I was investigating the kidnapping. Hugh tries to conceal his misery behind his most dignified, aristocratic manner.
“Even if the kidnapping was an inside job, why are you accusing us?” Tristan asks. “We’re not the only people who live in Mariner House.”
The servants stir in consternation that Reid dispels by saying, “The servants have been cleared. That leaves the four of you, plus Sir Gerald and John Pierce.”
“It wasn’t me,” Lady Alexandra hastens to say. “I was with Tabitha when Robin was taken.”
“And Olivia and I were t
ogether.” Tristan puts his arm around his sister.
“We’ll be taking a long, hard look at those alibis,” Reid says. “One of you wasn’t where you said you were. One of you was stealing Robin out of his crib, weighing him down with rocks, and drowning him in the pond.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Lady Alexandra cries. “I would never have hurt my baby.”
“You might have if there was something seriously wrong with him and you didn’t want to be the mother of a baby who was less than perfect.”
Confronted with my theory about Robin, Lady Alexandra looks suddenly frightened—proof, albeit intangible, that my theory holds water.
“You’re just trying to put the blame on us because you haven’t been able to find the real killer,” Tristan says, but he sounds shaken.
“The ‘real killer’ would have had a motive for wanting Robin dead. Such as inheriting Sir Gerald’s fortune. Oh, but aren’t you now the heir apparent?”
Tristan rubs his hand over his mouth. Olivia blurts, “Tristan didn’t do it.”
“So maybe you did,” Reid says. “Maybe you thought that with Robin gone, you would be Daddy’s little girl again.”
Olivia stares him in the eye and pouts.
John Pierce steps forward from among the crowd of guests. I didn’t notice him earlier; I can’t tell if he’s been there all this time or just sneaked in. “The ransom note was posted from Shoreditch on April eleventh.” This is a piece of information that Sir Gerald didn’t give Hugh and me. “Sir Gerald has been tracking our movements since the night of the kidnapping.” Pierce seems to have known this all along, but I can tell from their startled expressions that it’s news to Lady Alexandra, Tristan, and Tabitha. “We were all at Mariner House that day. None of us could have sent the note.”
“Maybe the note was a hoax,” Reid says. “Or maybe one of you wanted to bilk Sir Gerald and had help from someone on the outside.”
Raphael DeQuincey bolts from the parlor, jostles past the servants, and runs out the door that leads to the garden. Tabitha cries, “Raphael, wait!”
“Was that the medium?” Reid says to the constables, “I want him for questioning.”
The constables run after DeQuincey. Amid the general clamor, Tabitha calls, “Raphael, don’t leave me!”
As she tries to follow him, Lady Alexandra grabs her arm and demands, “What’s gotten into you?” Tabitha sags to her knees and bursts into tears. Lady Alexandra gapes at her in disbelief. “You and Mr. DeQuincey. . . ?”
The front door opens, and Sir Gerald strides into the foyer. “What’s going on here?” he demands.
Hugh, Mick, the servants, and I step aside to let him enter the parlor. There, he beholds the police, the weeping Tabitha, the handcuffed Olivia, and the mute, shocked guests.
“Gerald!” Lady Alexandra flings herself into his arms. “Thank God!”
The changes that the past twenty-four hours have wrought in Sir Gerald shock me. Purplish bags underscore his bloodshot eyes, and new lines carve his coarse skin, as if his body is taking the brunt of his grief over Robin’s death. But his manner is still imperious as he says to Reid, “Why are you bothering my family? Shouldn’t you be looking for my son’s killer?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Reid says. “They’re the suspects. But you knew that.”
Sir Gerald immediately turns to Hugh and me; he’s deduced that we’ve talked to the police. His gaze darkens with angry reproach. Guilt shrivels my insides.
“He said you found Robin’s toy rabbit on the stairs.” Lady Alexandra casts her pleading gaze up to her husband. “Tell me it isn’t true!”
Sir Gerald looks grim; he doesn’t answer. Lady Alexandra cries, “No!” She pushes away from him and sobs. Tristan and Olivia regard their father as if he’s betrayed them. Pierce’s expression is deliberately neutral.
“You should have told me at the start.” Reid’s manner is censorious, resentful. “Instead, you let my squad chase around London for almost three weeks, investigating false tips and wasting our time. We’d still be in the dark if your detectives hadn’t spilled the beans.”
Reid aims a dirty look at Hugh and me. He’s furious because we withheld information, because I told Barrett instead of him. But it’s not Reid’s fury that concerns me most. Hugh, Mick, and I face Sir Gerald as if we’re three backstabbers caught with bloody knives in our hands. I think of the business rivals he’s destroyed, the rebellious slaves he shot, and I look around, hoping for rescue.
Everyone watches us, rapt with suspense and not about to intervene. Inspector Reid smiles, malevolently eager to see me get my comeuppance. Barrett frowns and takes a step toward me, perhaps because he still cares about me, more likely because of his instinct to protect the weak from the strong. I should warn him not to put himself between me and Sir Gerald, who won’t spare anyone who gets in his way.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Sir Gerald doesn’t seem to hear me. The anger leaves him as though it’s unneeded ballast he’s jettisoning from a ship. His gaze, now as opaque and inscrutable as during our first meeting, focuses on some distant horizon invisible to everyone else.
“You can go.” Sir Gerald speaks in the cursory manner with which he dismissed Hugh’s father from his office.
I’m too astonished and hurt to feel relieved. It’s as if Sir Gerald thinks I’m so insignificant that punishing me isn’t worth his time. Everyone else is silent and still, blank-faced with puzzlement.
Mick nudges Hugh and me and whispers, “Let’s go before he changes his mind.”
22
“I thought Sir Gerald would have our heads,” Mick says as we walk down the road leading away from Mariner House, past carriages filled with passengers arriving for Robin’s wake. “Why didn’t he?”
Hugh snorts in derision. “It wouldn’t have put the cat back in the bag.”
I’m still trying to make sense of my emotions. I knew I was nothing to Sir Gerald but hired help, and the fact that I failed to live up to his expectations shouldn’t bother me this much. “Maybe he thinks we know something that we haven’t told the police and letting us go was a bribe to keep us quiet.”
“So we’ve been bought off?” Mick says, half flattered, half resentful.
“Better bought off than strung up by our thumbs.” In a foul mood, Hugh stalks ahead of Mick and me.
I feel scant relief that we’ve escaped punishment from Sir Gerald. I’ve handed the police a packet of evidence against the Mariner family, and I have no control over how they use it. This could be my old nightmare from last fall come again—that my actions bring harm to someone.
“We mustn’t leave yet,” I say.
Hugh calls over his shoulder, “What choice do we have?”
At the gates, I see guards letting in more carriages, the crowd outside larger than ever. Reporters, photographers, and curiosity-seekers have come to view the aftermath of Robin’s death. I stop. “We have to find out who killed Robin.” I also want to make it up to Sir Gerald for betraying his trust.
“Just how are we supposed to do that?” A spell of coughing overcomes Hugh. When it’s finished, gasps heave his chest, and his eyes are red and watery. “All the suspects are in there.” He points at Mariner House. “We’re out here.”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“Inspector Reid won’t want us pokin’ around,” Mick says.
“But we can’t leave everything up to him,” I say. Reid tried to pin the murders in the dinosaur park on Hugh and me, and his investigation into Robin’s murder is a chance for another miscarriage of justice.
“Sarah. It’s over.” Hugh is impatient, exasperated. “Face the facts.”
He’s suffered the worst of all of us from our time at Mariner House, just as he suffered the worst during the Ripper case. It’s no wonder he wants to quit. But I can’t quit, and I can’t solve Robin’s murder by myself.
“Inspector Reid might decide Tristan murdered Robin,” I say. “Don�
��t you want to prove he’s as innocent as you think he is?”
Although it’s an obvious, deplorable attempt at manipulation, I’m desperate enough to try it. But Hugh only gazes solemnly at me with his haunted red eyes. “Maybe I was wrong about Tristan. He and Olivia tried to run away. That rather suggests he’s guilty.”
I feel bad for Hugh, no matter that I have continually tried to rid him of his blind faith in Tristan. I think of my father, in whose innocence I still desperately want to believe.
Hugh walks out the gates and hires a carriage driver who’s waiting for customers. As he climbs into the carriage, he calls to Mick and me, “Are you coming?”
My chances of accomplishing anything at Mariner House are slim. I don’t want to part from Hugh while we’re at odds, and I’m afraid to let him go alone. The memory of his suicide attempt last fall still haunts me. But I have a duty to bring justice for Robin Mariner and to protect the innocent. And now that I’ve lost Barrett, I must salvage something from the wreckage of my life.
“Go with him,” I tell Mick.
Torn between conflicting loyalties, Mick says, “Fitzmorris will be with him when he gets home. I can’t leave you here alone. I’ll stay too.”
“Suit yourselves,” Hugh says.
The carriage bears him out of sight. Newly aware of the magnitude of my love for him, gripped by a fear that I’ll never see him again, I have an urge to run after Hugh.
“Come on,” Mick says, heading toward Mariner House. “The sooner we solve this, the sooner we can go home.”
#
As we backtrack along the road that leads to Mariner House, Mick asks, “What are we going to do when we get there?”
This is an all-too-familiar situation; our plan doesn’t extend beyond the immediate next step. “We’ll have to improvise.”
“For starters, let’s avoid them.” Mick points to armed guards stationed along the road.
We cut across the grounds, circling the mansion, whose solid brick bulk appears impenetrable. Its windows gleam like hostile eyes watching us. Our route takes us down the hill, below the brick arcade that supports the pergola, to the outbuildings. As we steal past a barn, two police constables round the corner.
A Mortal Likeness Page 19
