“It’s alright,” he said, though it wasn’t, not by a long chalk. But neither was it her fault, he could see that. “And what about Alistair?” he asked, his voice hard. “Where was he in all this?”
“Harry, he didn’t know,” she said, grasping his hand tightly. “It was eight years before he came home, when his father died. He’d been forbidden to return, such was his father’s anger at him.”
They both sat silent, Harry waiting for her to continue and trying to squash the rage in his heart at his father, when he hadn’t known, couldn’t have known. But it wasn’t fair. Dammit, it wasn’t fair!
“I met Reggie during those years. He ... he’s a good and kind man, Harry but ... he’d got himself in a bit of bother, and ... and he needed a wife,” she said, looking awkward.
“What sort of bother?” Harry asked, frowning and wondering what on earth sort of trouble Reggie could possibly have got into, mild-mannered and easy-going as he was.
Beryl blushed and pursed her lips and glanced at him sideways. “Well ... he wouldn’t have married a woman if he hadn’t had to, put it that way,” she said, giving him a pointed look.
Harry frowned at her some more and then his eyes opened wide. “Oh!”
He considered everything he knew about Reggie and then said in surprise, “My God, Pennyworth!”
Beryl gave a snort of laughter and nodded. “Aye, that’s it. Pennyworth. Been going on for years.”
Harry stared at Beryl and felt a rush of pity for her.
“Oh, don’t,” she said, waving off his words before he could voice them. “I won’t have you pitying me.” She sat up straight, shaking her head. “I made my bed and I’d sworn off men for good after your father. But Reggie has been a good husband, despite ...” She waved her hand in an awkward manner. “He’s a kind man, and he agreed to be your father, you see.” She hauled in a breath. “So I went to see my sister. To tell her you’d be coming back with me, permanently.” She let out a sob and covered her mouth. “But ... but when I got there, you were sick. So sick with fever. You had this terrible wound on your shoulder. I could see right away it was a burn, and done on purpose,” she said, with such rage that he was taken aback. She reached out again, sobbing and stroking his hair with such love in her eyes that his chest grew tight.
“You were so sick. I was terrified to leave you. But I couldn’t risk losing my job or I’d not be able to keep you. Reggie didn’t earn nearly enough to feed all three of us and keep a roof over our heads.” She let him go but kept a hold of his hand. “You were too sick to take with me, Harry,” she said, pleading in her eyes that he should believe her. “But I paid for a doctor, he said he’d come every day, and I was coming back for you. But when I did, when I returned ... they told me you’d died.”
Harry stared at her in horror, realising what she was saying. If he’d only stayed. If he’d only stayed in that wretched house a few more days, his life could have been different.
“I ran away,” he said, his voice thick.
Beryl nodded, her cheeks wet with tears. “Why, Harry, why didn’t you wait for me?”
Harry tried to speak but couldn’t, the words wouldn’t come. He swallowed hard and put his head in his hands, fighting to compose himself. “I thought I dreamt you,” he said, his voice unsteady when he finally spoke. “I thought it was just a dream, and ... and I was frightened. I thought I’d be better off on the streets, away from Joe.”
Harry couldn’t look up at her, knowing he’d crumple if he did. So he stayed, head bent, staring at the floor, feeling her stroking his hair.
“When Alistair came home and discovered what had happened, he was devastated,” she said. Beryl hauled in a breath and when she spoke again, her voice was hard. “I was cruel to him, Harry. I blamed him, you see. Though it wasn’t really his fault. But he’d seduced me, naive little fool that I was, and he’d never considered the consequences. Never thought for anything past his own pleasure. So I told him how his son had been treated, how we’d been forced to live, scrabbling to survive, and that you’d been tortured because his real father hadn’t protected him.”
Harry looked up, then, seeing the regret in her eyes. “He was never the same. He’d been ill when he was away, in any case, and he’d grown thin and weak, but I don’t think he wanted to recover after that.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “He gave me and Reggie work here, and he just ... shut himself away. And I was glad of it,” she said simply. “My son was dead, and he ... who had so much, was still alive, if you could call it that.”
Harry frowned at her and she gave him a defiant look. “I punished him for what happened to you, for his carelessness with our lives, and by the time my anger had faded and I was ready to forgive him, he was too changed. He’d become bitter and hard and ... mean. Until you came.”
Harry let out a breath, a huff of air that might have been laughter if his heart wasn’t so sore and battered.
“All this time,” he said in wonder. He looked at her, wondering if he should be able to see some echo of himself in her. “All these years.”
Beryl nodded. “And I never knew, Harry. Not until after Alistair died, when I saw the scar on your shoulder.” She blinked away tears, half crying, half laughing. “Even then, I couldn’t believe it at first. I kept telling myself it was wishful thinking, but then I began to look at you anew. I’d thought that you were just a good mimic, you see, the way you’d copy Alistair, his mannerisms, the way he spoke, a certain look or expression. But then I realised, it was him. He was your father and you, you weren’t Harry at all, but my Horatio.”
“You were so angry with me when the will was read,” he said, staring at her as she nodded.
“Because I didn’t know then,” she said, anguish in her voice. “I could only think that our son, Alistair’s true son, had died in poverty and that you’d taken his place.”
They both looked up as footsteps sounded on the backstairs and Beryl glanced up at the clock. “Good heavens,” she exclaimed. “Harry, look at the time! Damn, Reggie. He’ll be over with Pennyworth again.” Beryl wiped her eyes and got to her feet, bustling about the kitchen and keeping her back to the door as it opened.
Harry looked up and felt his heart sink as Mr Formby walked into the kitchen.
“My lord?” the inspector said, staring at Harry with a quizzical expression and then looking to Beryl. As she was in her nightgown, still, and Harry barefoot with his shirt hanging out, he realised they must present an odd picture.
“I ... I couldn’t sleep,” he said, searching for a reasonable explanation. “Mrs Fletcher heard me crashing about in her sanctuary and got up to get me something to eat ...” he said, trying to smile and floundering. “We got chatting about my father ...” he said, realising everything he’d said was true, in any case, and relaxed a little. “About the past and ...”
“He’s my son.”
Harry started and turned to stare at Beryl in shock. She, in turn, was staring at the inspector. Harry glanced back at Mr Formby to find his eyebrows raised.
“His father was Alistair Preston, Viscount Stamford,” Beryl continued, folding her arms and staring at Mr Formby, her expression defiant. “You’ll find the birth registered at the church in Peasmarsh.”
“I see,” Mr Formby said, nodding as though this was nothing out of the ordinary. He got out his notebook and jotted the information down. “May I ask, why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because it’s none of your affair,” Beryl retorted, glaring at him. She took a few steps closer, pointing at him, her face full of anger. “I only tell you now because I’m sick of you looking at him with that leery eye of yours. Suspecting him of God knows what.” Harry watched with astonishment as his mother drew herself upright, walking in front of him and giving the inspector what for. “He’s the rightful heir as was written in his late lordship’s will. He didn’t kill Edwin Preston,” she shouted at him. “Nor Wilfred, and what’s more, I reckon you know it.”
A tr
oubled look crossed the man’s face and Harry felt a chill of foreboding.
“I’m not rightfully sure what I know yet, Mrs Fletcher,” he said, his tone considering as he looked at Harry and then back at her. His eyes narrowed. “But I will,” he said, nodding. “Oh, yes. I will.”
Chapter 33
A dog in a doublet - a brave and resolute fellow
- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.
Harry returned to his room feeling somewhat dazed. Reggie appeared about ten minutes later, bearing hot water and apologies and looking a little sheepish.
“Forgive me, my lord, only it was Mr Pennyworth’s birthday, and ...”
Harry stifled a bark of laughter and looked away so as not to offend Reggie, who’d always been so kind to him. “Think nothing of it, Reggie. I hope you celebrated in style.”
Reggie poured the water into the china basin and sent Harry a rueful smile.
“I think he enjoyed himself,” he said, nodding.
“Good,” Harry replied, stripping off his shirt and reaching for the soap. “I like Pennyworth, he’s a good man.”
Reggie paused and looked up at Harry with a smile. “Yes. He is, my lord.”
“Have you seen Beryl this morning?” Harry asked, as Reggie set about laying out clean clothes for him.
“Only long enough for her to put a flea in my ear and send me up with the water, sir,” he said, rejecting the first cravat that came to hand. “These need replacing,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ll need to get some new things made or Miss Clarinda will be thinking you’re not such a fine prospect after all,” he quipped, but Harry’s face must have shown his feelings as he remembered everything he was facing. In the light of his mother’s revelations, the future had become a little blurry. But now everything had a very sharp focus indeed, and would not be ignored. “I was only joking, my lord,” Reggie said, looking anxious. “You always look very smart.”
Harry managed a smile and nodded at Reggie, concentrating on drying himself off. “Thank you. That will be all for now, I’ll be down presently.”
Harry stood for a long time after Reggie had gone, with the towel hanging limply in one hand, and staring at the panelled door that had swung open last night. How many other disguised passages did this vast old castle hold? How many hidey holes and hidden doors?
How many secrets?
He sat down on the edge of the bed, a cold feeling washing over him as he considered again who might have killed Edwin, and why. He remembered the night Edwin had died, of a muffled, dragging sound that he couldn’t place.
Oh God.
He dressed quickly, wishing he hadn’t dismissed Reggie now as he fumbled the cravat. Running down to the kitchen, he felt a chill of foreboding as he found the room quiet and empty. Turning, he ran back up as Clarinda and the squire walked in the front door. Ignoring them in his panic, he shouted to Reggie. “Where’s Beryl?”
“She’s in the back parlour, my lord. Mr Formby had some more questions for her ...”
Without waiting to hear anymore or to greet Clarinda and her father, he turned and ran for the back parlour.
Mr Formby exclaimed in annoyance as he burst through the door, his face clearing when he saw who it was. Clarinda was running behind him, but that couldn’t be helped, he had no choice now.
“Don’t listen to her,” he said to Formby as Beryl shot to her feet. “Whatever she says, she’s lying. I did it. I killed Edwin. I confess.”
“Harry!” Clarinda and Beryl screamed at once, the squire bellowing that the boy had received a blow to the head and wasn’t in his right mind.
“He didn’t do it, I did! I already told you I did!” Beryl was screaming, panic in her eyes.
“She’s just protecting me,” Harry insisted, feeling terror prickle down his back at what he was doing but knowing he couldn’t stand by and see his own mother hang for trying to keep him safe. “I killed him, and I’ve done it before, a man in London. So you see, it is true.”
Formby stared at him in mute shock, and for the next few moments the room was complete pandemonium as Beryl and Clarinda cried and protested, the squire shouted his head off, and Formby tried in vain to restore some order to the room. The cacophony brought Reggie running in, and Mildred, too, who ran from person to person trying to make sense of what on earth was going on.
“It wasn’t him, it wasn’t him!” Beryl was screaming, increasingly hysterical.
Mildred patted her hand and said in her quiet, placid voice, “Of course it wasn’t, dear. It was me.”
Somehow, her softly spoken words managed to cut through the chaos and everyone fell silent, staring at her, open-mouthed in disbelief.
“Now, look here,” Mr Formby said, getting to his feet and looking profoundly irritated. “Now I’ve got three confessions and another corpse I didn’t want. Should I give you all a moment to get your stories straight?” he said, sounding increasingly terse as he closed his notepad and shoved it back in his pocket. “‘Cause right now I don’t like any of ‘em,” he added with disgust.
“What the devil is going on?” Baden asked, sticking his head around the corner and seeing everyone looking shocked and white-faced. “We could hear the ruckus upstairs. The doctor sent me down to tell you to all shut up. M’mother’s had a turn for the worse,” he added with a grimace.
Harry felt sure he heard Formby mutter wrathfully about the possibility of having yet another corpse on his hands, but he was too shocked by Mildred’s confession to pay much mind to it.
“Right,” Formby said, his voice that of a man on the edge. “I want everyone, everyone, mind, down here now. Your mother and the doctor excepted,” he said to Baden. “We’re going to go through this again.”
Clarinda ran to Harry and took his hand, leaning into him and sobbing, demanding he explain himself.
“I know you didn’t do it, Harry, why did you say so?” she demanded as he stared at her, feeling hopeless. How could he possibly explain?
“What the devil are you playing at, Harry?” Beryl hissed to him, tugging at his other hand and forcing him to sit down beside her. “You must let me do this, this one thing, at least, after everything that’s happened to you. Please.”
Harry stared at her, wondering at the fact that he was so very loved. For such a long time, he’d been all alone and lonely, and then his father had come and ... it all seemed a strange dream, too bizarre to be real.
“Everyone, quiet,” Formby barked as Norah, the three maids, Mr Brewer, and Rebecca Trinton filed into the room. “Not you three,” he said with impatience, sending the maids back out again, all of them looking furious that they’d been left out of the excitement. “Now, then,” he said, his foxy face showing two high spots of colour that suggested he was feeling a touch irate. “Mrs Fletcher,” he said, as Harry stiffened beside her. “Not you, my lord,” he said, his voice stern as he pointed a warning finger at Harry. “Not a blasted word.”
Harry glared at him, but Beryl patted his hand in a comforting manner.
“It’s not her you want to speak with, inspector, it’s me,” Mildred said before Beryl could open her mouth, and smiled at Mr Formby as though she was asking if he’d like another cup of tea. “I suspect what Mrs Fletcher has told you is partly true, however.”
Formby drew in a deep breath and turned to Mildred. “Very, well then, Mrs Preston, let’s hear it.”
“Edwin, my husband, tried to kill Harry, Lord Preston.” She turned anguished eyes on Harry as everyone gasped, shaking her head in sorrow. “I’m so sorry, my lord. I swear I didn’t know at the time or I would have found a way to warn you.”
Harry smiled at her and shook his head, not in the least surprised at her revelation. “It’s alright, Mildred, you can’t be held responsible for his actions.”
Mildred sighed in relief and turned back to Mr Formby. “Mrs Fletcher saw him running down the back stairs the morning that he pushed the coping stone off the roof, and Edwin knew he’d
been seen,” she continued, perfectly calm and self-assured suddenly, despite the fact she was confessing to murder.
Mr Formby turned to Beryl, his face grave. “This true?” he demanded.
Beryl nodded. “It is. He tried to kill my son, inspector. My son!”
Everyone in the room gasped in shock, except Mildred. She’d known, Harry realised in wonder.
“And his father was Alistair Preston,” Beryl said, putting up her chin, her tone defiant as everyone stared at her. “He is the man’s son and the rightful Viscount Stamford.”
“Well, I’m blowed!” Baden exclaimed. He leapt to his feet and grasped Harry’s hand, shaking it up and down and beaming. “See, I knew it. Knew you were a Preston, may the Lord preserve you!”
Harry returned a weak smile but couldn’t find it in him to feel any joy in having a cousin just yet.
Formby hushed Baden with impatience and sent him back to his seat with a quelling look.
“And why didn’t you tell me that at the time?” Formby demanded as Beryl folded her arms.
“Oh, yes, a housekeeper’s word against a man like Edwin Preston,” she said with a snort of disgust. “That’d stand up in court, wouldn’t it, sir?”
“What happened then?” Formby asked Beryl, ignoring her sarcasm and glowering a little.
“Well, it was like I told you, sir,” Beryl replied. “I knew he would have to get rid of me, and so I lay in wait for him.”
“Wielding a poker?” Formby said, riffling back through his notes.
Beryl nodded. “He’d seen me going up to clear the parlour of the tea things, late after everyone had gone to bed the night before. Reggie can’t cope with the stairs at the end of the day,” she said to Harry as an aside. “So I reckoned he’d know that was my usual routine and it would be the best time for him to deal with me, so to speak.”
“I see,” Formby said, staring back at his notes. “So you lay in wait for him behind the door and struck him with the poker.”
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