A Mortal Likeness

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “How did you get in?” Sir Gerald sits upright. Strength visibly floods back into him as if by an act of sheer will, and he appears to grow larger before our very eyes.

  I’m reminded of a dragon or other mythical beast, temporarily subdued during a battle and rising again, invincible. We’re too intimidated to confess that we used his secret tunnel.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Finding my voice, I stammer, “I needed to talk to you. About Lady Alexandra.”

  “You came to throw more mud at my wife?”

  Hugh steps in. “What she’s trying to say is, we no longer believe it was Lady Alexandra who murdered Robin.”

  A gulp bursts from Sir Gerald. It’s the sound that a drowning man might utter when he sees a life preserver tossed to him. Although Sir Gerald stood by Lady Alexandra, he must have been terrified that his wife, who is pregnant with their new child, was a monster who’d destroyed their son. I’m as glad to allay his terror as I am ashamed that I contributed to it when I accused Lady Alexandra.

  “We think we know who really did kill Robin,” I say.

  “Why should I believe anything you say? You keep changing your mind, pointing your finger at one person after another.” But Sir Gerald can’t hide his desire to hear us. He’s lost his discipline over his emotions, his ability to play his cards close to his chest. The brandy bottle on his desk is almost empty, and he smells of liquor. He’s drunk, and I think he’s also in the throes of a mental breakdown that started when Robin was kidnapped and that he’s held at bay until now.

  Mick speaks up. “Here’s why you should listen to us: you want the truth, and nobody else is gonna give it to you. If you throw us out you’ll be always wondering.”

  Sir Gerald looks at Mick, and I remember the first time they met and Sir Gerald took to him. “All right. I’m listening. Who is it?” His expression warns me that I’d better be right this time.

  “Excuse me, Sir Gerald.” John Pierce speaks from behind us, at the door.

  Alarm sizzles through me and widens Hugh’s and Mick’s eyes. We didn’t hear him coming. Now we’ll have to accuse Pierce to his face, and it will be his word against ours.

  “The guards spotted prowlers outside the estate.” Pierce has seen Hugh, Mick, and me, and his face registers surprise, then disapproval. “You’re the prowlers.”

  Sir Gerald silences him with a raised hand and says to us, “Who killed Robin?”

  “We were just about to speak of the devil,” Hugh says, pointing at Pierce.

  30

  Sir Gerald stares, uncomprehending, first at Hugh, then at Pierce.

  “Yeah, it’s him,” Mick says. “He killed Robin.”

  “That’s bosh!” Pierce’s scorn isn’t quick enough to conceal the alarm that flickers in his eyes. “Sir Gerald, I warned you about these people. They’re trying to bilk you again.”

  A watchful stillness comes over Sir Gerald. I imagine him as a hunter in the jungle, waiting to shoot the tiger. “John, I’ve never asked you, but I’m going to now.” His voice is very quiet. “Did you kill Robin?”

  Pierce laughs, but the sound is breathy with fear. “Of course not. It was Tabitha and Raphael DeQuincey.”

  Sir Gerald squints as if trying to discern whether the movement he sees in the jungle is the tiger or just the wind. I realize something I should have at the start: the outcome of the murder investigation depends more upon what Sir Gerald is willing to believe than upon the actual truth. He, with his power and influence, is the ultimate judge. This is our one chance to prevent a miscarriage of justice.

  “You took the ransom money,” I say to Pierce.

  Even as the alarm flares brighter in his eyes, Pierce appeals to Sir Gerald. “She’s lying. I left the money in the hollow tree. Tabitha and DeQuincey took it.”

  “You thought nobody saw you take it, but somebody did,” Hugh says.

  “That couple who were fooling around in the dinosaur park? They couldn’t have talked because I—” Realizing too late that his reaction put a lie to his denials and his words are tantamount to a confession, Pierce looks aghast.

  “You murdered Noel Vaughn and Ethel Norris,” I say. “They were witnesses. You couldn’t let them live.” Other mysteries unravel before my eyes. “You broke into my trunk and saw my photograph of them. You knew Hugh and I were at the park, and you thought we’d seen you too. That’s why you wanted to sneak us out of Mariner House—so we couldn’t tell the police. And after I said no, you tried to burn us to death.”

  “I don’t know what she’s talking about,” Pierce blusters.

  Sir Gerald bangs his fists on the desk, leans across it, and points at Pierce. “You kidnapped my son. It was you who you sent the ransom note. You took my money after you killed Robin. You never meant to give him back!”

  Pierce recoils and wipes his mouth with a trembling hand. “All right—I took the money. But I didn’t send the ransom note, and I didn’t kidnap Robin.” He obviously hopes that if he admits to a lesser offense, he won’t be punished.

  Sir Gerald beholds him with a mixture of realization and contempt. “You still have a grudge against me because I married Alexandra.”

  “Taking the money was good enough revenge on both of you.” Pierce surely knows better than to let his triumph show, but he can’t resist. He shrugs. “It didn’t make any difference to Robin—he was already in the pond by then. Somebody else put him there.”

  “You put him there! After I picked you off the docks in bloody Jamaica and gave you a good job and a home. You shit-faced, traitorous bastard!”

  “A job as your slave.” Decades’ worth of pent-up resentment spews from Pierce. “A home where I’m at your beck and call twenty-four hours a day and you fuck the woman you stole from me.”

  “If not for me, you’d have nothing. And you murdered my son!”

  Their mutual hatred is ugly to see, but Mick, Hugh, and I exchange relieved glances because things have gone better than we expected; Sir Gerald is convinced, and it won’t be long before DeQuincey is freed from jail. I only regret that it’s too late to save Tabitha.

  “The police are outside,” Hugh says to Sir Gerald. “With your permission, we’ll fetch them. They can arrest Mr. Pierce.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Sir Gerald opens the top drawer of his desk. His hand comes up holding a pistol.

  My breath catches. Hugh’s jaw drops. Mick exclaims, “Whoa!”

  “I’ll send this blackguard to hell without any help from the hangman.” Sir Gerald staggers out from behind his desk and points the gun at Pierce.

  Pierce backs away, his face a picture of disbelief. “You can’t shoot me.”

  “Just watch.” Sir Gerald is trembling; fresh tears leak from his eyes as his grief reverberates through his anger.

  Suddenly I understand why Sir Gerald hired Hugh and me, why he didn’t tell the police the kidnapping was an inside job, and why he made us sign the confidentiality agreement. He intended to avenge Robin with his own hands, and if we saw him commit cold-blooded murder, we would be too beholden to him—and too afraid of him—to object, let alone tell anyone.

  Pierce stumbles backward. The blood drains from his complexion, leaving it as yellow-white as polluted snow. His fearful gaze is riveted on the pistol as Sir Gerald takes aim at his heart. Contradictory impulses urge me to flee but root me to the spot. Although Hugh and Mick look terrified, they don’t move either. We’re loath to watch Sir Gerald kill Pierce, but we’re responsible for this scene, obligated to witness it. I want to close my eyes, to spare myself the sight of blood and death, but I also want to see justice done.

  As Sir Gerald cocks the pistol, a sob convulses him. His finger fumbles on the trigger. Pierce lunges at Sir Gerald. He grabs the gun with both his hands and yanks it upward. The gun points at the ceiling as the men stagger, bump the furniture, and fight for control of the weapon. Bellowing with murderous rage, Sir Gerald rams his left fist into Pierce’s ribs. Pierce yells in pai
n, but he doesn’t let go. The gun swings in wild arcs, pointing down, sideways, and at us.

  “Get down!” Mick drops to his knees, pulling Hugh and me with him.

  As we crawl toward the door, there’s a loud bang, the sound of glass breaking, and the smell of sulfur. I scream, turn, and see the jagged hole in the window behind Sir Gerald’s desk. The rush of cold air from outside fans the fire in the hearth into a blaze. Pierce and Sir Gerald fall in a tangle of legs. They thrash on the floor and shout obscenities.

  Frightened voices and rapid footsteps clamor throughout the house. People who heard the shot are coming. Sir Gerald lies under Pierce, bucking and flailing, trying to throw Pierce off him. While his right hand holds the gun over his head, he punches Pierce’s face with his left. Pierce clings to Sir Gerald’s wrist and bangs his hand on the floor in an attempt to make him release the gun. I have to help Sir Gerald. His attempt at cold-blooded murder has banished the vestiges of my personal feelings for him, but his life wouldn’t be in danger if not for me. Clambering to my feet, I look around for a weapon. Hugh and Mick hurry toward Pierce and Sir Gerald, but someone rushes past them, crying, “Daddy!”

  Olivia, in a white night dress, her curly dark hair like a cloud around her shoulders, throws herself on Pierce’s back. She claws his head, grabs his hair and pulls as she shrieks, “Stop it! Leave my father alone!”

  Then Tristan is in the room. He grabs Olivia by the waist, pulls her off Pierce, flings her aside, and reaches for the gun. With a mighty bellow and heave, Sir Gerald rolls over onto Pierce. Tristan is caught in the battle like a man on railroad tracks spun up in the wheels of a train. Olivia screams.

  The frenzy is over so fast, I can’t see what happened. Pierce is on his feet, the gun in his hand. Sir Gerald and Tristan are on the floor, struggling to rise, panting and disheveled. Pierce aims the gun at them. Bloody lines mark his cheeks where Olivia scratched him, and he gasps for breath. “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot.”

  Sir Gerald raises himself on hands and knees. He roars as he vaults at Pierce, whose finger is on the trigger. “No!” I cry. Tristan grabs Sir Gerald around his legs.

  “Gerald!” Lady Alexandra hovers near the door, blonde hair streaming to her waist, clutching the throat of her crimson satin housecoat.

  The room is now full of other people, mostly servants. Lottie is among them, open-mouthed with fright. As Pierce backs out the door, Sir Gerald wrenches himself free of Tristan and charges after Pierce. Mick, Hugh, and I—and everyone else—follow. Two guards with rifles hurry up the passage toward us. Sir Gerald points at Pierce and yells, “He killed Robin! Shoot him!”

  Lady Alexandra gasps as she beholds Pierce. “Oh, God. It really was you. I was right.”

  I think she lied about Tabitha not only to protect herself but because she wanted to believe that Tabitha, not Pierce, was guilty. But everything I heard her say to Pierce in the garden that night and about him to me later was real, not an act.

  The guards aim their rifles at Pierce. Olivia puts her fingers in her ears. She looks thrilled. I’m glad help has arrived, though dismayed that death still seems inevitable. Hugh stares at Tristan, who doesn’t seem to notice him. All Tristan’s attention is for Pierce and Sir Gerald.

  Lady Alexandra flings herself at Pierce, shrieking, “You killed Robin!” She beats his chest with her fists. He pushes her away, and she falls on the floor. He moves so suddenly that I don’t know what he’s up to until a second later, when he’s holding Lottie with her back to him, his arm tight around her waist, the gun barrel jammed against her temple. He says to the guards, “Drop your weapons, or she dies.”

  Shock paralyzes everyone else. Whistles shrill faintly outside. The police must have heard the gunshot; they’re coming. Lottie whimpers, her eyes round with terror. Mick cries, “Lottie!” and lunges to rescue her. Hugh and I hold him back.

  Sir Gerald roars, “Shoot him! That’s an order!”

  “I can kill her before you can kill me,” Pierce says to the guards.

  They look at Sir Gerald, at each other, at Lottie. They lower their rifles and let them fall to the floor. Relief floods me.

  “Good,” Pierce says while Sir Gerald sputters in helpless rage. “Now I’m going, and if you try to stop me, I will kill her.”

  As he walks Lottie down the passage, she cries, “Help!”

  Sir Gerald advances on them, but Olivia throws her arms around him. “Daddy, you mustn’t. He’ll shoot you.”

  “He killed my son. I’m not letting him get away with it!” Sir Gerald struggles to free himself from Olivia. She’s stronger than she looks, clinging tightly.

  “I’ll kill you myself!” Lady Alexandra sobs as she crawls after Pierce.

  Tristan grabs her skirts to stop her. Mick pulls away from me. “I gotta save Lottie!”

  He runs after her and Pierce. Hugh and I follow. I call to Pierce, “The police are outside. They won’t let you escape.”

  “They will unless they want her blood on their hands.”

  Lottie sobs, straining away from the gun pressed to her temple. “Mick, help me, please.”

  We reach the grand staircase, and Pierce forces Lottie down it. “Keep that boy away from me, or I’ll shoot him,” he tells Hugh and me.

  Hugh bounds down the stairs ahead of Mick. “Let’s talk this over, Mr. Pierce. How far do you think you can get, dragging this poor girl?”

  Pierce laughs, a sound both sardonic and strained. “Far enough.” He’s halfway down the stairs with Lottie.

  “Let her go, you bloody pig!” Mick yells.

  Lottie stumbles descending the last few steps, but Pierce holds her upright. They cross the dim foyer with Mick, Hugh, and me in pursuit while other servants watch fearfully from the landing above us. Pierce drags Lottie to the French doors at the back of the foyer.

  “Open them,” he says. When none of us obeys, he thrusts the gun hard against Lottie’s temple. “Do it!”

  “Go to hell,” Mick says, but he opens the doors. We follow Pierce and Lottie out to the terrace. The wind is rising; it chills my face and flaps my skirts. The sky is clearing, and the gibbous moon shows its cratered face through tatters of mist. Lottie shivers and sobs while Pierce forces her across the terrace and down the stone staircase. As we pursue them onto the pavement that surrounds the rectangular pool, two round bright lights suddenly emerge from the shadows in the topiary garden. They beam from lanterns that dangle from the arms of two guards. The guards aren’t the same ones who disobeyed Sir Gerald’s order to shoot Pierce, but they must have heard about what just happened. They aim their rifles at Pierce.

  “Drop your weapons,” Pierce says. “Let us pass, or I shoot her.”

  The guards advance, their expressions impassive as they sight down the barrels of their rifles. Either they don’t care about Lottie or they think they can bluff Pierce into surrendering. Pierce frowns, and his finger twitches on the trigger.

  Mick looks imploringly at Hugh and me. Hugh says, “Mr. Pierce, it’s over. Surrender.”

  The only sounds are the wind, the tinkling of the fountain, and Lottie’s sobs as Pierce stares the guards down. He must know that his choices are making his stand now or facing the hangman later. Mick, Hugh, and I stand by helplessly, anticipating the storm of gunfire.

  Footsteps clatter across the terrace above us. I turn to see Tristan Mariner run down the staircase. He positions himself between Pierce and the guards, in the line of fire. Facing Pierce, he spreads his arms to hold the guards back. Hugh inhales a sharp gasp. The guards lower their rifles. Tristan, breathless from exertion, ignores everyone except Pierce. “Let the girl go.” His handsome face is flushed, his expression cautious yet determined. He taps his fingers against his chest. “Take me instead.”

  “Your sacrifice won’t be necessary, Father,” Pierce says with a mocking laugh.

  Tristan moves toward Pierce. “I’m a better hostage than she is.”

  Hugh whispers, “Oh, God, no.”

 
“Don’t come any closer.” Pierce’s eyes flash with suspicion; he thinks Tristan has some scheme to thwart his escape.

  “They know you killed Robin. They’ll shoot you.” Tristan gestures at the guards behind him. “They don’t care if they shoot the girl too. Neither will anybody else. She’s nobody. But they won’t shoot me.” Tristan stops inches from Pierce and Lottie. “I’m Sir Gerald Mariner’s son. Nobody will hurt you if I’m with you and my life is at stake.”

  Pierce neither moves nor changes his obstinate expression, but I sense his thoughts shifting. “Take off your coat,” he orders Tristan.

  Tristan unbuttons and removes his black coat, drops it on the steps, and stands in his shirtsleeves and priest’s collar.

  “Raise your hands,” Pierce says. “Turn around, slowly. Then turn your pockets out and pull up your trouser legs.”

  “I’m unarmed,” Tristan says, complying.

  Although I’m relieved for Lottie, my hopes sink as I realize that Tristan actually intends to go with Pierce, and he has no means of defending himself. Hugh says, “Tristan.” He sounds moved as well as horrified by Tristan’s heroics. “Don’t.”

  If Tristan hears or cares that Hugh is worried about his safety, he doesn’t let on. Pierce beckons, and Tristan moves closer. In one quick, deft motion, Pierce thrusts Lottie away and pulls Tristan against him like a shield. Lottie runs sobbing to Mick and throws herself into his arms.

  “Throw your weapons in the pond,” Pierce orders the guards.

  Two rifles splash and sink. Pointing with his toe at the ground a yard from himself, Pierce says to one of the guards, “Put your lantern there.” The guard grimly obeys. Pierce lets go of Tristan, jams the pistol against his back, and picks up the lantern. “Let’s go.”

  We watch, speechless and appalled, while Pierce marches Tristan into the darkness. “Tristan will try to capture Pierce,” Hugh says in a voice that quakes with fear. “He’ll be killed. I have to save him.” Hugh bolts after Pierce and Tristan.

  “Hugh, no!” Afraid he’ll be shot while trying to rescue Tristan, I run after Hugh.