On a Desert Shore

by S K Rizzolo

  Mrs. Yates became caressing. “Oh, my dear, it will soon be over. Marina will receive excellent care, and you’ll assume your rightful place in the world. You and Ned both. You’ll have years to bless me once matters are settled.”

  Beatrice’s reply was lost as a groundskeeper, passing outside, whistled a tune and called out a remark. Penelope heard Mrs. Yates say, “Where is Mrs. Wolfe, and where is that rogue, Lewis Durant? Have they gone at last?”

  To Penelope’s frustration, the two women moved into a more open position next to the pelargoniums, where she could not follow, but she remembered the boiler room under this building and the gratings through which she’d heard voices during Garrod’s tour. If she could get into that room, she might be able to hear more. She retreated like a ghost, pausing at the side door to listen. The voices had moved even farther away. Penelope edged the door open and slipped around the rear of the hothouse to approach the cellar doors. They were stiff, but she dragged one door open so that she could wedge her body onto the stairs. She left the door ajar behind her so that some gardener would not come along and shut her inside. There was no lock, and she felt reasonably sure she’d be able to get out in any event.

  The heat in this underground place struck her like a blow. Sweat broke out all over her body. In a hunched position she moved forward cautiously, her hand groping the wall for balance. When she stood on the floor, she looked around. There was the massive boiler with its cistern. There was the furnace, which on this chilly summer’s day had a crackling fire burning inside it. As she advanced several paces, her slippers left black smudges on the stone. Her gaze traveled, first to the little window above the cistern, which allowed light to trickle in, then to the gratings. She could hear the voices, but the bubbling of the boiler made it hard to distinguish the words. Then she remembered the ladder used to service the cistern and dragged it to the back wall as quietly as she could. Climbing up, she shoved her hair out of the way and put her ear to one of the grates.

  “Ned and Mr. Tallboys will return soon,” Mrs. Yates was saying. “I want the coach away before they come if possible. If not, leave Ned and the lawyers to me. You stay with Marina. When the keepers arrive, I’ll bring them upstairs to you. Go now.” It seemed the women had altered their position, for Mrs. Yates’ next few sentences were lost. As Penelope craned her neck and shifted her body to thrust her head next to another grate, her foot slipped from the rung, and the ladder scraped against the wall. She froze. But the voices overhead grew stronger again and continued without interruption. Penelope drew a breath of relief. She hadn’t been detected.

  Beatrice said shrilly, “Why didn’t you arrange for the madhouse keepers to come after the reading of the will? The lawyers will object to your plan.”

  “No, my dear, they won’t. Marina won’t be seeing them. She is unwell today. The lawyers will understand that we have nothing to hide in our arrangements, that we act for the good of the family.”

  “But how long will Marina be gone, ma’am? This seems wrong. Let me speak to Mr. Tallboys myself.”

  Anne Yates laughed, a chilling sound that made Penelope grateful to be hidden from view. “Why do that? He knows all about it. He thinks it was his idea to lock her up.” After a pause, she added, “Besides it’s only until she is better. What can you be thinking of me, Beatrice? You are not yourself. Your nerves are disordered. You know what Marina has done. What if she were to play more of her tricks or, worse, harm someone else? What other option do we have but to put a stop to her wickedness before we are all disgraced?”

  This time the silence stretched for so long that Penelope thought the conversation must be over. Finally, Beatrice said, “Aunt, you must listen to me.” The footsteps retreated, their voices fading. Though Penelope shifted her position and strained her ears, she heard no more.

  Assuming that the women would make their way out of the hothouse, she decided to allow them a head start. After a minute or two, she descended the ladder. She must find Lewis and go to the inn to wait for Chase and Buckler. With her testimony and perhaps Beatrice’s, who seemed to be having second thoughts about her cousin’s treatment, Marina’s removal could be delayed if not stopped altogether. But as Penelope went to the stairs, the door above her head slammed shut. The clang of metal striking metal hit her ears.

  Penelope called, “Someone’s here. Don’t go away.”

  She pushed both hands against the door but could not budge it. Suddenly she understood the significance of that clanging sound. Someone had jammed the handles by thrusting an object between them. She called again, her heart pounding, her body breaking out in a fresh sweat. Already her breath came in gasps. She had been so focused on listening to the women’s conversation. Now she noticed that there was a sharp metallic smell; the air seemed denser and smokier. Surely that apparatus ran too hot.

  As if this weren’t enough, water began to surge into the iron cistern, pouring from the pipe above her head. Someone had opened the valve. Not sure what to do, she retreated to the stairs. It was probably only her imagination, but the whoosh of the water seemed louder, and the boiler creaked ominously. She felt panic hum through her veins, making it almost impossible to think. How long would it take for the water to overflow the cistern and flood the cellar? Not long. It poured and poured and poured. It reached the top and began to flow down the sides and pool on the floor.

  At that moment, she felt the prick of eyes upon her and looked up. A face peered down at her through the window. One glimpse was enough to sear the image in Penelope’s brain. Anne Yates gazed on her with a pitiless stare. It seemed unfocused, as if the woman had moved beyond her normal self and could no longer trifle with ordinary human concerns. Penelope opened her mouth to shout at that face but, before she had formed the words, it vanished.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Buckler watched the mourning coach carrying Honeycutt and the Reverend Tallboys trundle past him up the road and roll into Laurentum. Ahead of him, the trio of lawyers walked up the broad drive lined by oak trees. One of them, the youngest of the three, clutched a leather portfolio under his arm and walked a step or two behind his seniors. Buckler increased his pace, wanting to catch them before they reached the house. But when he was at their heels, the middle-aged solicitor with the careworn aspect glanced over his shoulder.

  “May we assist you, sir?” the lawyer said, not sounding as if he wished to do anything of the sort.

  “A word with you.” Buckler doffed his hat and bowed, in the process catching the eye of the younger man, who looked him full in the face and froze. The young lawyer was a short, rotund man in a black suit and crooked spectacles. He sported an air of dignity and moved stiffly as though he’d spent too much of his life bent over books.

  “I recognize this chap. I’ve seen him argue in the Old Bailey,” this lawyer said to the others. To Buckler he said, “Edward Buckler, isn’t it? Thought I caught a glimpse of you in church.” Observing his middle-aged colleague’s raised brows, he added, “He’s the barrister who defended Collatinus, Mr. Dudley.”

  Dudley’s thin lips pursed. “Is he indeed, Mr. Rourke?” He gave Buckler a cool look. “Well, what can we do for you, sir?”

  Buckler glanced at the third lawyer, an aged man in a powdered bob-wig and three-cornered hat. He had a deeply scored countenance and eyes almost hidden in a welter of flesh. His skin was white, his lips bloodless, his nose majestic. Buckler, having seen at once that he was the one in charge, addressed the next speech to him. “Are you aware that Miss Garrod will soon be taken from her home?”

  “Taken from her home?” echoed the young lawyer, rudely inserting himself. “Why, what can you mean, and what’s it to do with you? We’re on urgent business today, Buckler.”

  “I assume you’re here for the reading of the will, and I concur the matter is urgent. As to who I am, you may say I’m a friend to the young lady. She’s been unjustly implicated in murder, by her own f
amily. Someone means to thwart your client’s wish to make Miss Garrod his heiress.” He hesitated, then said, watching for a telltale shift, “To inherit only under certain conditions?”

  Dudley snapped, “No concern of yours, sir. Allow us to proceed.” But Buckler had noted the flash of confirmation from him and the younger lawyer called Rourke. The old lawyer’s expression remained perfectly bland.

  Rourke leaned over and whispered in Dudley’s ear, something Buckler was presumably not intended to hear. Associates with low lawyers and thieves’ attorneys. Bit of a loose fish, they say…

  Frowning and shaking his head, Dudley said, “You waste our time, Buckler. We’ll bid you good day.” He resumed his stately progress up the drive, his colleagues falling in with him.

  “Miss Garrod is friendless and alone,” Buckler called after them. “Do me the justice to at least listen to me. I’ve been staying in the house and know far more than you can. She has been drugged, confined to her room, and denied access to her friends. I fear she will soon be locked up in a lunatic asylum. I merely ask you to delay. Inquire. Speak to her privately and ascertain her welfare. A Bow Street Runner will add his voice to mine.”

  The lawyers stopped and turned around. Dudley said, “A Runner? It is our duty to help our client’s family hush the gossip, not encourage it. There is nothing in our instructions to authorize the employment and payment of any thief taker.” He used the derogatory term for the men attached to Bow Street, which was also applied to private individuals who pursued thieves and other criminals for financial reward.

  “Mr. Garrod hired him to investigate some nasty tricks being played on his daughter. He now investigates the poisoning,” said Buckler desperately. “He is persuaded that the motive for the crime lies in the settlement of the estate.”

  Rourke’s dislike got the better of him. “We’ve heard the rumors. The girl is touched in the upper works. If the family has decided to seek medical treatment for her, how should that be any bread and butter of yours? She is a minor under the care of respectable people. There is a blood tie, even if they may not approve of her. Dashed smoky affair all the way around. Who can wonder if the family is unnerved?”

  “You forget yourself, Mr. Rourke,” said Dudley repressively and told the young man what he thought of his indiscretion in a few choice words. Rourke blushed and subsided, though he shot Buckler a murderous glare that promised repayment should opportunity arise.

  At that moment they heard the rumble of carriage wheels, and a second coach passed under the stone archway that marked the entrance to the property. Imperturbably, the old lawyer, who had remained silent throughout the encounter, drew to one side of the road to allow it to pass. Rourke and Dudley joined their colleague as Buckler tried to get a look at the coach’s occupants. It was a large landau, painted a shiny black, unmarked. At first Buckler’s hopes had leapt high when he thought it must be John Chase returning from his errand. Instead he saw a coachman, who stared straight ahead, and caught a glimpse of two strangers, both looking curiously out the window at the group on the sweep. Buckler had an impression of hard, determined men, as one of them put an arm out the window to wave them out of the way.

  “That must be the madhouse keepers.” Buckler heard the tremor in his own voice and cursed inwardly, ashamed of his emotion. But the thought of those men taking Marina Garrod away made him sick. Where was Chase? What was to be done if he did not return? If Marina disappeared, their chances of finding her would be remote. Without a court order, an institution would not be required to disclose the names of its inmates, and there were private madhouses all over the country, some holding only a few patients. Buckler and his friends would never find her.

  Dudley had raised a handkerchief to shield his nose from the dust. “We’ll bid you good day, sir.”

  “Think of the money at stake,” Buckler said. “Think how greed may warp the heart and turn people cruel and unscrupulous. At least make inquiries on Miss Garrod’s behalf. I must try to stop those men.”

  “You are out of order, sir,” said Rourke.

  “I agree,” said Dudley, but he didn’t seem entirely convinced of his own judgment. He said to the old lawyer, “What is your opinion, Mr. Endershaw?”

  The man in the wig came to life. He raised one languid hand, his shrewd gaze fixed on Buckler’s tense face. “Be calm, sir. We shall make inquiries.”

  Buckler thanked him with real gratitude. As they walked on, he stayed with the lawyers, deciding he’d have a better chance of gaining access to the house in their company. By the time they reached the portico, the mysterious coach had drawn up at the foot of the marble steps next to the mourning carriage, which a groom was leading to the coach-house. The driver of the second coach was still in his place on the box. There was no sign of the two strangers.

  In the hall the butler Niven hovered. He greeted the lawyers with his customary smoothness and took their hats and coats. “You are expected in the library, sirs,” he said. “Will you come this way?” As he spoke, the sound of raised voices floated down from above, and Buckler stiffened, imagining he’d heard Lewis’ among them. The three lawyers looked at each other. Niven glanced uncertainly at Buckler and opened his mouth to speak.

  Buckler, pretending he hadn’t heard the noise, interrupted him. “Where is Mr. Honeycutt? I’m sure he is busy this afternoon, but please inform him I’d like to speak to him.” Buckler had decided that Honeycutt might be the best one to corner since Tallboys was unassailable in his role of guardian, not to mention pompous and self-satisfied. At least Honeycutt had defended Marina at the inquest and had confessed himself eager to marry her. He might be a party to a plot against her; then again he might not. Buckler could only make the attempt.

  “Mr. Honeycutt will be down in a moment. He went to wash his hands and refresh himself before the reading of the will.”

  Ah, thought Buckler, he’s likely taking a nip for courage before he finally learns his fate, but what was going on upstairs, and where was Penelope? “Mrs. Wolfe? Is she in her room?”

  The butler replied, “She went to make her farewells to Miss Beatrice in the glasshouse, sir.” He added in a wooden tone, “I had expected her back by now. She had requested that the coach be brought round for her departure within the half-hour. I hope she found Miss Beatrice.”

  At that moment Beatrice herself emerged from the drawing room. When she saw Buckler, she stopped short and said in some alarm, “Mr. Buckler. I thought you’d left us.”

  He searched his mind for an excuse. “Pardon the intrusion, Miss Honeycutt. I’ve just come from the memorial service. I needed to assure myself that Mrs. Wolfe has no further commands for me. Have you been with her?”

  An extraordinary series of emotions flashed across Beatrice’s face. She raised her chin defensively, her pale blue eyes blinked, and her broad, white forehead wrinkled in distress. “I think she may be in the hothouse, Mr. Buckler. You should go and fetch her at once. Excuse me, gentlemen. I am needed elsewhere.” She hurried toward the stairs.

  “Is there a problem, ma’am?” Buckler said.

  “Go, Mr. Buckler,” she said, without looking back. She fled.

  Though Niven stared after his mistress, the butler seemed to rouse himself. “This way, sirs,” he said again to the lawyers. The old lawyer called Endershaw wore an arrested expression, and he pointed his nose in Buckler’s direction with his first direct look. But he consented to accompany Niven and his colleagues to the library. Left alone, Buckler didn’t hesitate. Something in Beatrice Honeycutt’s voice had frightened him. She had been warning him—but of what? He didn’t wait to consider this question but retraced her footsteps through the drawing room, out the French window, and down the path, almost before he realized what he was doing. Something was very wrong. Every instinct he possessed told him to find Penelope. He broke into a run.

  ***

  On the way back from Gracechur
ch Street, John Chase and his companion grew increasingly confidential. Chase found that he liked the surgeon and was grateful for his help, though the man’s impulsive good will rather took him aback. Caldwell was eager to testify at the reconvened inquest and at future criminal trials. The surgeon repeatedly expressed his shock at the chemist’s testimony that an older, motherly lady had purchased the arsenic. But Chase had not been surprised.

  His suspicions had pointed to Anne Yates ever since the prior night when he’d spent all those lonely hours in the corridor with nothing to do but think. Chase had assembled a few pertinent facts: she’d had access to the drawing room on the morning when, presumably, the stolen key had been used to tamper with the sugar in the teapoy. She’d also been in the hothouse to set up for the party and had had an opportunity to drop the key to make it seem Garrod had simply misplaced it. Later that night, she had avoided drinking the poisoned brew. Chase hadn’t seriously considered the housekeeper before because he thought it unlikely Garrod could have made her his heiress. Garrod would want a younger person—someone who could bear children to carry on the family name. This had always been a case about money, Chase had believed. But another idea had belatedly come to him. What if he’d got the motive partially wrong?

  Barely attending to the surgeon’s chatter, he halted the gig at Laurentum’s entrance porch. A coachman walked his horses on the drive. Was that the lawyers’ landau or the coach that was to take Penelope and Lewis back to town? Chase subjected the vehicle and its driver to a quick scrutiny but could determine little other than that the coachman seemed bored. He tossed the reins to Caldwell and used his walking stick to cushion his jump to the pavement. Still, his knee made its unhappiness at this maneuver known.

  “Stay here until I call you,” he told the surgeon.

  Caldwell nodded at the driver of the coach, who eyed them with suspicion. “Who’s that? Shall I inquire?”