“If you had openly declared your intentions to Miss Pritchard’s father, as I am sure you know you ought to have done, then you would have nothing much to fear from Barnes seeing you. It would have been a minor annoyance, not a threat to your secret. And he was a threat to your secret if he saw you.”
“I told him to hold his tongue. I have said that already!”
“And as far as you know, did he hold his tongue? He didn’t speak to Miss Pritchard about it?”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because she has more to lose than you? Because she was the weak point? A man who sees something of that nature might well be tempted to take advantage of it, and who is the easier prey in this case?”
“You think he spoke to Miss Pritchard about this?”
“It is possible.”
“What are you implying? That... no, I won’t have that, sir!”
“I have to consider all angles, Mr Watkins. And I have evidence that Miss Pritchard has been behaving strangely – in some respects like a desperate woman.”
“What do you mean by that? Desperate? Do you mean to imply that Miss Pritchard killed Barnes? She could not hurt a flea!”
“Are you sure, Mr Watkins?”
“If you are so determined to find your murderer, sir, well, you may have me! I will confess to killing him and go to the gallows for it. But you shall not accuse Miss Pritchard of this. I will not have that!”
“That is noble, Mr Watkins, but I am after the truth, not the stuff of old romances. If there is anything about her behaviour that disturbed you that day, that seemed not quite right, I ask you to tell me it. Put aside sentiment – for your own protection. You are not yet her husband.”
“In the eyes of God I am!” he exclaimed. “And I will not have her insulted like this!”
“You are actually married?” Giles said.
There another pause.
“We have made our promises to each other before God. That is a wedding contract in all respects.”
“But these promises were not made in front of a clergyman, with witnesses present? Nor with a licence or the banns having been read?”
“It was a marriage in eyes of God,” said Watkins. “She is now my wife in all respects.”
“All respects?” Giles said. Watkins looked away. The implication was clear enough. “That is interesting, Mr Watkins.”
Watkins sat down and covered his face with his hands. His shame was palpable.
“It was not what we intended,” he said rather quietly. “Not for the world would I have chosen it to be this way. It is simply that her father would never hear of it. He is impossible, Major Vernon. He would have separated us for ever and that I could not bear. I was half a man before I met her. I was nothing.”
***
Giles went back to the kitchen where he had left Miss Pritchard to wait. He half expected her to have slipped his grasp, but she was still there, but she was holding her bonnet as if about to put it on and leave. She looked as if she had been crying again. Had her conscience been preying on her? Was it possible that she had murdered Charles Barnes in a fit of angry passion, to conceal her love affair?
“May I speak to Mr Watkins?” she asked.
“Not at present, Miss Pritchard, I’m afraid. I am going to take you home now.” She nodded and put on her bonnet. “Tell me, Miss Pritchard – and do not take it as a liberty – do you think you are with child?”
“It is possible,” she said after a long silence.
“And that is why you took Mr Carswell’s name in vain? You wanted to conceal the identity of the real father?”
“Yes. Mr Watkins has told you that we...?”
“And a great deal more besides,” Giles said. She screwed up her face for a moment. He went on, “It does not matter to me whether you tell me the truth now or later, Miss Pritchard – but for the sake of your own peace of mind I urge you to consider a speedy confession.”
“I have nothing to confess,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “You have got all our secrets, Major Vernon.”
“Have I?” said Giles, who knew well enough from experience that a pause before a statement often indicated a lie. She avoided his gaze. “Well, Miss Pritchard, I will take you home now, and I want you to think very hard about all that has passed between us.”
She nodded, and then said, “What will you say to my father? Will you tell him about this?”
“It is not my place to do that.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I would rather he did not know – not yet, at least.”
“You would do well to tell your father everything as soon as possible. He will, I’m sure, be far more understanding than you imagine.”
“You do not know him, sir,” she said a little sharply. “You really do not.”
They walked back to the Deanery in silence. He took her to the front door and rang the bell. The moment the maid appeared, Miss Pritchard ran in, and went straight upstairs, without another word or a backward glance.
Chapter Thirty-two
Felix left his consulting room to attend to a prisoner in the cells, and returned to find two women waiting to see him.
For a moment he was annoyed, for the usual custom was that prospective patients waited on the benches outside in the passageway. However, a quick glance revealed that these were not wives or relatives of any of the constabulary seeking his advice. They were both handsomely dressed. The woman who was seated was wearing an ornate black lace veil which entirely obscured her face, while the other, standing in attendance, had the look of a superior lady’s maid.
The veiled woman rose as he came in, and addressed him. “Mr Carswell?”
For a moment he did not know what to say. Who she was he had not the least idea.
“Ma’am,” he said. “How may I help you?”
She came forward and put out a gloved hand.
“If you might spare me a few moments I would be so grateful,” she said. Yet she did not put up her veil.
“Of course,” said Felix, shaking her hand, so he might feel her pulse. It felt steady enough. “Please sit down.” He pulled out the Windsor chair on which his patients usually sat. “What seems to be the trouble?” He now wanted her to fold back her veil – it was starting to irritate him.
“Jenkins, you may leave us,” she said to the other woman in attendance. He had been right to think she was a servant. Jenkins nodded and went to the door.
“You wouldn’t prefer that she stay while I examine you?” Felix said.
She said nothing until the maid had closed the door behind her.
“Ma’am?” he prompted her.
“Oh, this is so difficult,” she said in a quiet voice.
He took a chair and sat down beside her.
“Whatever you tell me will be in confidence, ma’am,” he said. “Please be assured of that. Now, if you might tell me what is troubling you. Perhaps it would help if you took up your veil?” he ventured.
“I would rather not, if you don’t mind.”
“A physician may gauge a great deal from the state of the complexion,” he said.
“I have not come to see you as a physician, Mr Carswell,” she said.
“Then why are you here, ma’am?”
“I am here because of your connection to Lord Rothborough.”
“Oh,” said Felix, beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. Who on earth was she? Some rather unpleasant suspicions were overtaking him. Her clothes were extremely elegant – any fool could see that that she was a person of great wealth. She was not young, and he had felt a wedding ring under her glove. Could it possibly be Lady Rothborough herself? It would explain the thickness of the veil and her reluctance to raise it. After all, he had seen her portrait at Holbroke.
He found himself peering through the scrolling black silk attempting to match the features of the painting with what he could see.
“Mr Carswell!” she said, and leaned away. “Please!”
“Sinc
e you know who I am, ma’am,” said Felix. “It would only be common courtesy for you to tell me who you are.”
There was a silence for a moment and then she said, “You have his manner. It is true what they say.”
“Ma’am, if you are who I suspect you are...”
She laid her hand was on his arm.
“No, no, I am only her envoy. I am her friend,” she said.
“She has sent you to see me?” he said. “Lady Ro–”
“Yes,” she cut in. “Yes. That lady.”
Felix leant back in his chair, almost too astonished to speak. He did not know whether to take this at face value. It was such a common ruse that he was still inclined to believe that this really was Lady Rothborough.
“If you would put up your veil,” he said after a moment, “I think this business between us would go better.”
“Very well,” she said and folded back her curtain of lace, revealing her features to him.
He saw at once it was not Lady Rothborough, and felt extremely relieved. This woman was a great deal more handsome. Even after the flattery of an expensive portrait painter, Lady Rothborough was still notably plain, in a sweet, round-faced fashion. She was also dark-haired. This woman was fair, with pale gold hair, not, unlike that of Mrs Morgan, although in the stranger’s case the gold was touched with grey and the dullness of age. She also had the most striking blue eyes, and she looked up at him through thick lashes in a manner which suggested she knew exactly what effect it would have on him. He tried not to be moved, but he could not help it. It was astonishing that a woman of that age – and he judged she was well over forty – could still exude such powerful beauty. He wished she would put down the veil again. It was disconcerting.
“And your name?” he asked.
“That is not important,” she said. “I am merely a humble envoy.”
He supposed he would have to accept that, although there was nothing humble about her.
“So what does Lady Rothborough wish to say to me?” he said.
“She begs you, sir, to use your influence, for the sake of a wife and mother.”
“My influence? With whom? I have no influence.”
“Your influence with her husband, of course,” she said.
“I do not have any influence over Lord Rothborough,” said Felix.
“There you are wrong,” she said. “The regard in which he holds you – it is well known. Lady Rothborough is aware of it.”
“There might be regard, but I cannot influence him. She ought to know that. Indeed, she should take comfort from it.”
“You have no influence with him because you have not tried to exert it,” she said. “But such is his feeling, he will be vulnerable to your opinion, Mr Carswell. That is the plain truth – an unhappy one of course, for Lady Rothborough, but she is desperate and hopes you will help her. This woman, this dreadful creature...”
She looked away.
“Do you mean –” Felix began, but could not bring himself to continue.
“The Morgan woman, yes,” she said. “That is why she has sent me to you. To put it plainly, sir, she is desperately unhappy about this situation.”
“Then why does she not speak to him about it?” Felix could not help saying.
“He will not listen to her. We thought, we hoped, indeed we prayed he might listen to you. You must help her, sir, I beg you. You must tell him to end it with her.” She grabbed his hand and although he tried to free himself, he could not. “She begs you to intercede. She does so out of great love for her husband. She does not want him ruined by her, and she is certain he will be.”
It was on the tip of Felix’s tongue to say that Mrs Morgan was far more likely to be ruined by Lord Rothborough, but instead, having managed to disentangle his hand, he said, “Are you sure about this?”
“Mrs Morgan is a wicked woman,” said the lady. “She will ruin him. She is capable of it. She has enslaved him and she will lead him to destruction.”
“What evidence do you have for that?” Felix said.
“Will you not take my word for it?”
“Well, no, I cannot. I do not know you from Eve, ma’am, do I? I cannot condemn a person without evidence. I cannot believe mere tale-bearing.”
“Do you think I would have come here, taken all this trouble, just to bear tales, sir?” she said. “For pity’s sake, you must believe me, Mr Carswell. I would not have come here had I not feared for my friend – and she is a dear friend. I have seen how wretched this is making her – she is suffering grievously knowing what this hideous creature is determined to do.”
“Which is?” Felix said. She said nothing. “Give me some evidence and I will do as you ask.”
There was a silence, and she got up and crossed the room to the window, where she stood – Felix could not help thinking – arranged to look as elegant and as desirable as possible.
“Of course,” she said simply. “Of course, it was a great deal to expect that you would take a part against him. Blood will always speak, and you must be a loyal son. That is to your credit, Mr Carswell, although I think you are pitiless not to consider the feelings of the unfortunate woman who loves him so dearly. She only asks you to help her in helping him. She asks you to think of the affection you bear him, and which she bears him, and she prays that it may make alliance in such a good cause.”
“Then you must explain to me – why do you think Mrs Morgan will ruin him? What can she be capable of that Lord Rothborough is such danger now? After all, it is common enough knowledge that he has had mistresses before. Lady Rothborough must know that. She may be unhappy and he may be the cause of that, and a cruel husband, which I do not condone –”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“But how is Mrs Morgan any different from these other women? He has accommodated them without any great scandal.”
“Yes, but she is different – very different, and she is dangerous.”
“In what way?”
“She is dangerous to him. She has awoken his passions in the most terrible way. That is the danger of it.”
“Oh, I do not think that –”
“There is a precedent for this, Mr Carswell, as well you know. The circumstances of your own birth – need I say more? Your own mother, well –”
“What of her?” Felix said, feeling his throat dry.
“I don’t what he has told you. It is a painful subject with him, of course. When she broke with him, he was on the verge of self-destruction, such was his despair. He nearly killed himself. His valet found him with a pistol in his mouth – if he had come in a moment later he would surely have been dead!”
Felix stared at her. This story was entirely new to him – but it made an uncomfortable sort of sense. Why else would have he warned him so much against falling in love if he had not suffered such misery himself? “You must remain captain of your own heart.” Felix had imagined it was cynicism speaking, not bitter experience.
“Dear Lord...” he muttered.
She sat down beside him and took his hand again.
“That is what Lady Rothborough is afraid of. And that is why you must warn him against her – you must tell him that he cannot trust his heart to her. She will not keep him as tenderly as she ought. She is not a good woman – she is no better than a common whore, Mr Carswell, and she will use him for her own mercenary ends, of that you may be sure. And then when she is done with him, he will be wrecked, just as he was before. She will drive him to self-murder, we are sure of it. Will you help us?”
Chapter Thirty-three
It was Felix’s ardent wish to go straight to Mrs Morgan and demand that she refute these charges. He ached to know her side of the story, for he felt there was too much painful possibility in what his strange visitor had said. How would she defend herself? Could she defend herself? He hoped she could, for it hurt him to hear her slandered.
But first he had a call to pay on the unfortunate Mrs Fildyke – an unpleasant but necessary duty.
As he walked there, he decided he would go to Mrs Morgan afterwards, and take another tilt.
Of course, she was likely to be cryptic on the subject, and angry with him for speaking of it. He would probably get his cheek slapped again; not that he cared – he had taken a perverse pleasure in that. To provoke her had meant something. Though his head told him she would never relent, especially when faced with those dreadful accusations, his heart – that diseased organ – still held out the belief that she would, with time, relent. His heart treasured the sting of her hand on his cheek, and hoped that the force of his passion, and the memory of his kiss would by now have had some effect upon her, that she too would be in some way infected. He even hoped that she was suffering as he was with the torment of confused feelings.
Yet why did he wish her to suffer? That he could not comprehend. This love of his had no nobility to it. It made him peevish and cruel as well as supremely foolish. It made him suspicious and possessive. He did not know if this was some basic defect in his character. He wondered if he were even capable of generous, disinterested and pure-hearted love. That was what he would liked to have felt for Mrs Morgan – something that had a touch of the sacred in it, but he did not, and he hated himself all the more for it.
If only he could rid himself of that bodily desire and those constant, flickering images that his mind conjured up from the darkness in him. How easily he slithered into picturing himself bedding her with no ceremony and very little kindness so that he felt more like a beast than a man. It distressed him greatly. He seemed to constantly stumble over them, even when he was making a great effort to think of other things. He wanted a violent conquest. He wanted to overwhelm her and show her that he had mastery over her. He wanted her to be enslaved by him, just as she had enslaved him.
And was she truly wicked? Beneath all that brilliant surface was there really a vile and corrupted whore? Were those dreadful letters telling the truth? It seemed to him, as he struggled with his unruly mind, that she did indeed possess some dreadful, wicked power over men and that it was not his weakness but her malicious intentions that were driving all this. That was what his anonymous visitor had said, after all.
The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries) Page 20
