Colonel Tyndale thought, “Dammit, there was no call to hurt the boy!” And knowing his harshness was born of a dread of the next few minutes, he drew a hand across his brow and muttered, “I’m sorry if I spoke with unnecessary heat, Dev. But Yolande had told me part of what she intended to write, and I’ll own I don’t relish telling you of it.”
Much embarrassed, Craig came to his feet. “You will be wishing for your privacy, sir. I am the one should go. Besides, I’ve a long journey before me and might as well get started.”
“Journey?” echoed Devenish suspiciously. “To where, may I ask?”
“Why, it seems I have inherited my father’s home in Ayrshire. I hope I may find it, but—”
“You mean Castle Tyndale?” Devenish sprang up, his eyes sparking. “The devil! That’s less than ten miles from Steep Drummond! And I suppose you’d no idea you would be following the same route as my lady, had you?”
Craig’s head tilted back a fraction, and his eyelids assumed a bored droop. “Since you appear to be betrothed to the lady, I fail to see your concern. No gentleman could approach her under such circumstances.”
“No gentleman!” flared Devenish. “Why, you slippery Captain Sharp, you’ll not pursue her while I live to prevent it! If you really seek your blasted inheritance, I’ll ride with you, and let me tell you—”
“You—will—do—no—such—thing!” thundered the Colonel, standing and suddenly looking to be seven feet tall. “Sit down! Both of you!”
When his two dismayed nephews had complied, he went to the sideboard, fortified himself with a glass of cognac, and strode back to the mantel, blinking a little because of the unaccustomed haste with which he had swallowed the strong liquor. For a moment he stood there, swirling the brandy in his glass and frowning down at it. “You will not like what I have to tell you,” he said slowly. “It should have been told long since, but from the contents of your solicitor’s letter, Craig, I collect you have never been informed, and I’ll own I have kept the truth from you, Alain.” He looked deliberately from one apprehensive young face to the other, and sighed. “You were aware that my brother and sister were twins,” he began. “I suppose of the two of us boys, I resembled my father more closely. I was the stolid plodder, while Jonas was handsome and light-hearted, but with the devil’s own temper—always into some mischief or other. Despite our different natures, we were deeply attached, but between Esme, your mother, Dev, and Jonas, Craig’s father, there was a bond such as I have seldom seen between brother and sister.”
Devenish said, “I knew they were twins, of course. And I believe you said they looked alike.”
“Very much. Your mama was a singularly beautiful girl. I remember…” The Colonel frowned, his eyes becoming remote and sad. “I remember Jonas bragging that with her looks his twin would wed no less than a duke, and even he would scarce be good enough for her!”
“Instead of which,” Devenish put in, “she married the younger son of an impoverished house. Her twin must not have thought much of my papa, eh, sir?”
Alastair’s sombre gaze drifted to him. “Jonas was furious, and did all in his power to prevent the match. He even appealed to my father, but by that time—” He shrugged. “He was such a wild young rascal. He had already been out twice, and was obliged to flee the country and stay abroad for six months as a consequence of one of those meetings.”
“Killed his man, did he, sir?” asked Devenish, his eyes sparkling. “By thunder, but he must have been a dynamic fellow! I wish I might have seen a likeness of him.”
Craig threw a faintly bored glance at him. The Colonel, vexed by the interruption, said, “You would have, save that my father had every trace of Jonas destroyed, or so he thought. Esme kept a miniature of him, and after her death I acquired it.” He walked to the small table beside his chair and opened the drawer. “I intend to bequeath it to you, Craig. But I will ask that you allow me to keep it until my death.” He looked down at the small painting with wistful eyes, then held it out.
Craig glanced at it, his own eyes enigmatic. “I have a larger one in Canada. Thank you, sir.”
The Colonel’s brows lifted slightly, but without comment he handed the miniature to Devenish.
The result was a breathless exclamation. Paling, Devenish gazed down at a man that, save for the style of dress, might have been himself. The fair curling hair, the wide-set deep blue eyes alight with laughing impudence, the straight nose and sensitive mouth were almost identical. Only in the set of the chin was there a difference, Devenish’s inclined to be more square than that of his long-dead uncle. “The resemblance,” he gasped, “is—is—”
“Uncanny.” The Colonel nodded, retrieving the miniature and gazing at it. “I told you they were twins, and you take after your mama, rest her soul.” He glanced at Craig, wondering if the boy might resent that close resemblance, but the strong face was without expression.
Devenish asked, “Sir, what happened? If the attachment between my mother and her twin was as deep as you say, I would have thought Uncle Jonas could have influenced her against the marriage.”
“Do not imagine that he did not try.” Tyndale replaced the miniature in the drawer and closed it, but remained standing, hands linked behind him, facing these two so dissimilar young men, and dreading what he must tell them. “Perhaps the most ironic thing about it,” he went on, “was that Jonas had introduced them, for all through school and University, Stuart Devenish was his dearest friend. Jonas reproached himself bitterly for that, but it was too late; Esme adored her brother, but she had her share of spirit and determination, and nothing would sway her from Stuart. She told me once that the instant she laid eyes on him, her heart was given. And I am very sure it was the same with him. They delayed their wedding, hoping Jonas would come home for the ceremony, but he refused, and they were married in his absence. A year later, Alain was born. Jonas was still in Belgium. When he did return he seemed less vindictive towards Stuart. It was not his way to hold a grudge, for he was all fury one minute and sweet contrition the next, so I began to hope the breach might be mended. During Jonas’s absence, Stuart’s elder brother had been killed in a racing accident and Stuart had inherited Devencourt, the family’s country seat in Gloucestershire. My dear sister delighted in the house, but she had never forgotten our happy days in Scotland, and it was there that you were born, Alain. You were at Castle Tyndale again when you were nearing your first birthday, and when Jonas came back from Belgium I told him I meant to journey to Ayrshire for the occasion. I could scarce have been more pleased when he agreed to accompany me.”
He paused, smiling nostalgically. “Shall I ever forget that reunion? Stuart had been deeply troubled by the quarrel and was more than willing to let bygones be bygones, but I’ll own I was a little apprehensive. My father was ailing, and was at that time dwelling in Cornwall because of the milder climate. He had already announced the disposition of his estates. Because of his impatience with his heir, Aspenhill, which should by rights have gone to Jonas, had been deeded over to me, and Jonas was the legal owner of Castle Tyndale. As a result, he had every right to demand that Stuart leave. However, he marked the resemblance immediately he saw you, Alain, and when he learned they had named you after him, he was so proud it was— I see I have surprised you, Craig. Your cousin is called Alain Jonas Devenish, you were unaware, eh? Your own middle name is Winters, you said?”
Craig drawled with a touch of irony, “To be precise, sir, Craig Stuart Winters Tyndale.”
“Now—by thunder!” muttered the Colonel. “So the affection held true—in spite of everything.”
Eager to hear the rest of the story, Devenish prompted, “Not so unusual, surely? They had been friends in childhood and were now brothers-in-law. But something occurred to disturb this truce, did it, sir?”
Behind his back, the Colonel’s hands tightened. “Yes. The castle. Ah, you may well look surprised, but Jonas was possessed of odd fancies at times. He had always disliked the place, and
had told me on several occasions that he never would live there, and that our father had given it to him out of malice because it was haunted; as indeed, legend has it. He could not be easy there, and once—God! Why did I not heed him?—he said he felt the Sword of Damocles poised above his head, and he had best get back to town before it fell!”
He was silent, lips tightly gripped together, eyes gazing into a past that only he could see. Watching him, Craig saw the gleam of sweat on the high forehead, and his own inner apprehension deepened.
“About a week after the birthday party,” the Colonel resumed, “Esme became slightly unwell. She was increasing, and at first none of us was too much concerned. It was just a cold, she said. But she was slow to recover. Jonas blamed the climate and asked Stuart if he could take Esme back to Town. In point of fact, I doubt his fears were justified. It was cold, but it was a dry cold, lacking London’s penetrating dampness, and it was my impression that my sister throve in the place. Jonas, however, became more and more worried.”
“Was my father not concerned at all, sir?” Devenish asked curiously.
“He was willing that Esme should come back to Town. He worshipped her and would have done anything she desired. But Esme wanted her child to be born in Scotland. As I said, she was a strong-minded girl, and she only laughed at what she called Jonas’s ‘fey fancies.’ As the weeks went by, Jonas grew more and more irked by Stuart’s refusal to order his wife to leave Castle Tyndale, and I must admit I also was becoming anxious for Esme’s welfare. Jonas began to sneer that Stuart dwelt under the cat’s foot—that sort of nonsensical talk. It was I think inspired partly by worry for your mama, Dev, and partly by his own fear of the castle. Fortunately, Stuart’s disposition was amiable, and he could usually tease Jonas out of his dismals. But one day…”
Again he paused. The room was hushed, and the soft rain which had begun to fall sounded very loud as it pattered against the window. The cousins exchanged an uneasy glance, already half guessing what was to come.
“Stuart,” the Colonel said heavily, “loved the sea, and it was his habit to go up to the battlements every day, weather permitting, and look out over the cliffs. He was there one afternoon when Jonas came to me in great agitation, saying that Esme had fainted in her dressing room, and that with or without her consent he intended to take her down to London at once and place her under the care of a most excellent physician. I was alarmed, naturally, and I made haste to my sister’s room, while Jonas went rushing in search of Stuart. I found Esme laid down upon her bed, with her woman fussing over her. I could hear Jonas and Stuart shouting. I remember thinking, ‘My God! What a time to quarrel with poor little Esme lying here so ill!’ and I started up to the battlements to try to quiet them.”
His voice shredded, and when he resumed his tale, he spoke in so low a tone that his hearers were obliged to lean forward to hear him. “There is,” he said, “a side stair that winds up around the northwest tower. And there are occasional windows … narrow, and very deep.” He turned abruptly, to stand with head down and shoulders hunched. “I see it … still … So terrible. A sudden—darkness, passing the window. And this—this awful, despairing scream…”
White as death, Devenish sprang up. “God in heaven! Sir—what are you saying? Was my father—murdered?”
For an interminable moment, the Colonel did not answer. Surreptitiously, he dragged his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it across his face. With a deep, quivering breath, he turned to face them again, his lean features drawn and haggard. “We found Jonas lying in a dead faint on the battlements. For two days he was as one in a daze; quite unable to tell us what had happened. When he at last could speak of it, he admitted he had flown into a passion and warned Stuart he would hold him personally responsible if anything happened to Esme. Stuart, it seems, turned on him at last, and demanded he cease frightening his sister with his morbid imaginings.” The Colonel sighed. “I knew Jonas so well. It would have taken no more to inflame him.”
“And because—because of that perfectly justifiable remark,” gasped Devenish, “he flung my father from the parapet?”
“He swore he did not. He said he struck Stuart with his open hand only, and at once repented the blow, but that Stuart leapt back, stumbled, and fell.”
His fists clenched, Devenish admitted reluctantly, “I suppose that—could be so.”
The Colonel said nothing.
Watching him tensely, Craig probed, “There is more, I think, sir?”
“How I wish there were not,” groaned the Colonel. “Some of the men Jonas had set to clearing debris from the beach saw Stuart fall. They insisted he had not stumbled, but that they had distinctly seen him hurtle backward as though violently pushed. That he had, in fact, been struck with such force he’d had no chance to catch at the battlements or attempt to save himself, but had soared straight back and down, to his death.”
His face set into a grim mask, Devenish fought rage and horror, to ask brusquely, “But the battlements are crenellated, are they not?”
“True, lad. But the crenels atop Castle Tyndale reach to the floor.” The Colonel glanced at Craig. “A crenel is the space between the merlons atop battlements. In many instances, the crenels are constructed a few feet from the floor.”
“But at Castle Tyndale,” Devenish rasped, “They have no lower wall. My poor father had not even that slight chance of saving himself.”
The Colonel pointed out miserably, “It would not have helped, Dev.”
Devenish swore and turned a contorted face to his cousin. The Colonel was also watching Craig, and he was startled when the bowed head was raised to reveal the cheeks streaked with tears. “I wish,” the Canadian said painfully, “I only wish to God—I had known.”
“Well, I know!” Devenish stood and glared down at him. “From the first moment I saw you, I loathed you! I thought it was because you had hurt Yolande. And later, I supposed it was because of the way you ogled her! But it goes far deeper! Your miserable wretch of a father murdered mine! And the hatred between us is—”
Craig had also come to his feet, his expression only a little less enraged than that of his cousin. “Foul-mouthed clod! What proof have you of his guilt?”
“It was proven long ago! Murder, cousin! Murder most hideous! And I swear that I—”
“Be still! Both of you!”
Colonel Tyndale’s cry knifed across that savage room. Devenish flung around to face him, rebellion written clearly in his face. Craig started and drew a hand across his wet brow.
“By your leave—gentlemen,” the Colonel said angrily, “I will finish my unhappy tale and be done with it!” The cousins remaining silent, he went on, “Within two months of the tragedy, my beloved sister suffered a miscarriage and died. The doctor tried to ease the blow by saying she would have died in childbed at all events. It was untrue. Esme had lost all will to live. When Stuart was killed, her heart broke. The most … pitiful thing was that”—his voice became husky with emotion again—“that she blamed herself! That sweet, gentle child who was born to love and to be loved. If she had not wed in the face of Jonas’ opposition, she used to cry, if she had only obeyed him—none of it would have happened. But that was not the truth of it!”
He paced to stand before Devenish and glare at him until his nephew recoiled a step, his own fury giving way to consternation. “The crime—if such it was,” the Colonel grated, “grew from my brother’s ungovernable temper! And be warned, Dev! I will not stand by and see it happen again! So help me, God, I swear it!”
Devenish said a cautious, “Surely, you are confused, sir! It was Stuart Devenish, my father, who was foully murdered. It is Craig on whom your wrath—”
“No! It is very apparent to me that Craig has little of Jonas in him. You are the one has inherited that unpredictable temperament!” He jabbed a finger at his aghast nephew and accused, “You—as I told you at the start—take after your mama. My brother’s twin. In you, I see again his undisciplined impetuosity,
his fierce pride and swift rages. I have struggled these twenty years and more to break you of those tendencies. I have watched irresponsibility drive you from one disaster to the next. I’ll not now stand by and see you exact vengeance upon your innocent cousin! No, by God! Sooner would I have you clapped up in Bedlam!”
Devenish gasped and, shaking his head speechlessly, shrank away until he stood against the wall, staring with stricken eyes at this relentless stranger he had known so many years, and knew not at all. “But—but, Uncle,” he faltered, “you know—you must know that I never deliberately— I mean, a few practical jokes, I—I admit. But I would not—intentionally—really hurt anyone, save in self-defence.”
“No more, I doubt,” Craig’s quiet drawl intervened, “did my father.”
Two distraught faces jerked towards him. The Colonel exclaimed, “You knew all of this?”
“I would to God I had! I might have understood him better. I might even have been able to help him.”
Colonel Tyndale stepped closer. Devenish did not move, but demanded, “Then what do you mean?”
Craig looked from one to the other, and asked hesitantly, “How old—do you suppose me to be?”
Watching the Canadian narrowly, the Colonel said, “Three and twenty, though I’ll own you appear older.”
“I am twenty-eight.”
“That’s not possible!” flared Devenish. “Unless—” With a surprising degree of eagerness, he asked, “Do you tell us you are adopted? That you were my uncle’s stepson, perhaps?”
“No. I do not say that. You remarked, sir, that my father was obliged to flee the country because of a duel, just before his twin married Stuart Devenish. My mother was the cause of that duel.”
“Was she, by thunder!” breathed the Colonel. “He knew her—then?”
“She was his wife.”
“That is not possible, by God! Jonas may have been ramshackle, but he’d not— I cannot believe that he—” The Colonel checked, scowled, drew a bewildered hand across his brow, and groaned. “He would! Devil take him! I loved the young fool, but … he would! And yet—why the secrecy? Was she—your pardon, boy, I mean no disrespect but—was she—”
The Noblest Frailty Page 8
