“Well, yes,” Beryl said as Mildred tutted at her.
“Except that she missed, inspector,” Mildred said, and adding with no little pride, “I, however ... didn’t.”
“Do you mean to say you were in on this?” Formby demanded as Harry gaped at sweet little Mildred in astonishment.
“Not intentionally,” Mildred admitted. “I’d left my embroidery in the parlour, you see, but when I came down and saw Edwin struggling with poor Mrs Fletcher ...” She paused, then, and grew very still. “Mrs Fetcher was kind to me, Mr Formby. I spoke to her about my son and ... and she told me about hers.” She looked up then, her expression placid but her eyes full of defiance. “My husband beat me, inspector. He beat me every day since the day we were married, and when I saw him raise his fist to Mrs Fletcher, I just thought ... no. That’s enough.”
“My dear lady.” Everyone turned to see the squire staring at Mildred with tears in his eyes. “My dear, sweet, lady. How that monster mistreated you. It’s inhuman, inspector!” He turned back to Mr Formby, his usually jovial face full of rage. “If you arrest this woman after everything she’s been through ... I’ll ... I’ll have you turned off, that’s what I’ll do!”
Formby began to protest that he’d not begun to speak of arresting anyone as yet, but the squire’s attention had been redirected.
“Oh, Squire Bow,” Mildred replied, covering her heart with her hand and looking at the man like he’d hung the moon. “But you mustn’t be cross with poor Mr Formby, he’s only doing his job.”
“His job be damned!” the squire exploded. “You’ll have the best lawyers money can buy, but I’ll see him ruined if he tries it, see if I don’t!”
Mr Formby sat back down and reached into his pocket to retrieve a handkerchief. He took a moment to mop his brow before turning back to Mildred, who was trying to calm the squire, and had him sitting back down at her side.
“So,” Formby said, keeping a leery eye on the squire, who was still simmering. “You hit your husband over the head with the poker that Mrs Fletcher had dropped, and killed him?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, nodding. “And Mrs Fletcher was all for confessing that she’d done it there and then, but I told her that Edwin had ruined my life for quite long enough and I saw no reason why he should ruin any more of it, nor hers either. So we dragged him outside and put him head first in the ornamental pond.” She paused, a slight smile playing over her mouth. “It seemed fitting at the time, though I can’t think why now.” She looked up at Harry and sighed. “I’m so sorry to have cause you such worry, though, my lord. I always intended to come forward if anyone else was accused. Well,” she added, looking a little guilty. “I might not have done if you’d accused Wilfred, Mr Formby, but you never did.” She looked so dejected at this that Harry almost laughed out loud and barely stopped himself in time.
“Is that what happened, Mrs Fletcher?” Formby demanded, the look he was giving her daring her to contradict a word Mildred had said.
Beryl nodded. “It is, inspector. So, you see, Harry knew nothing about it; in fact, he almost caught us dragging the body outside, but there’s a hidden cupboard in the hall there and we managed to get inside it before he came past us.”
Formby pursed his lips. “The strange noise you heard, my lord,” he said with sigh.
“Well, that still doesn’t clear up the question of who killed Wilfred Preston,” he said in frustration, giving Mildred a sceptical look. “Or is there something else you’d like to get off your chest?”
“Oh, no,” Mildred said, smiling sweetly at him. “I only killed Edwin.”
“Of course you did,” Formby muttered, sitting back in the chair with a sigh.
Harry looked up to see Rebecca Trinton giving Mr Brewer a fierce look and him pretending in turn that he hadn’t seen it. Formby, however, had seen it, too.
“Mr Brewer, do you have anything to say?”
“No, sir,” Brewer said, shaking his head.
“Oh, yes, you do, Nicholas,” Rebecca hissed at him, giving him a shove. “Tell him or I will.”
“Mr Brewer?” Formby repeated, his tone warning that his temper was at its limit now.
The valet sighed and he shot Norah an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Norah,” he said, his voice low. “It was Norah Preston. She suffocated her husband Wilfred with a pillow. I saw her do it.”
Chapter 34
All his cards are trumps - a lucky man
- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.
It turned out that Nicholas hadn’t been exactly idle since his master had met an untimely end, and had been cultivating a friendship with the neglected Miss Trinton. Rebecca had come to the conclusion that a title and a draughty castle in the country weren’t all they were cracked up to be, and she wanted to have some fun instead. Baden’s epiphany and his new resolution to become a sober and useful member of society couldn’t have happened at a worse time, as far as she was concerned. So finding a like-minded soul in the handsome person of Mr Brewer, Rebecca had decided to make some changes.
It had been after one of these romantic, late-night rendezvous that Mr Brewer had been feeling uncharacteristically good-natured and went to check on his employer, only to catch Norah in the act. She’d had her back to the door and been too focused to notice him at all.
Miss Trinton and Mr Brewer had intended to run away together that morning, eloping to Gretna Green, in fact, in what Rebecca seemed to think a very romantic manner.
Baden seemed perfectly content with the arrangement and not in the least put out, and wished them happy. Norah was clearly less happy about it, but as she was also extremely drunk, as usual, it was hard to tell what exactly she was more upset about: being accused of murder, or her lover deserting her for another.
“I did it for you!” she screamed as Formby’s men hauled her out to the carriage to be transported for trial. “I love you, Nicholas!”
There was a tense and uneasy silence as Formby came back into the room, and he stood, staring at Mildred with a considering expression. The squire glowered back at him and Formby raised his hand in a placating manner.
“So Edwin Preston tried to murder Viscount Stamford there,” he said, nodding at Harry. “And then went for Mrs Fletcher, for she’d caught him in the act, as it were. So when Edwin tried to murder Mrs Fletcher, you stepped in to stop him?” He paused, narrowing his eyes at her as she nodded. “Edwin fought back, though, and you were, in fact ... forced to defend yourself? Is that correct, Mrs Preston?”
Mildred blinked up at him, her mouth making a silent o of surprise.
“Why, yes!” the squire said, standing up and reaching out to shake Formby’s hand with vigour. “That’s it, that’s the ticket. That’s just how it happened, isn’t it, Mildred?”
Mildred glanced from the squire’s anxious face to Mr Formby and gave a little nod.
“Just so, Mr Formby.”
Formby let out a breath and Harry held his, his stomach tied in a knot as he knew from the grim look on the inspector’s face just what was coming next. If only he’d kept his bloody mouth shut.
“Well, then, my lord,” Formby said, turning his attention to Harry. “You didn’t kill Edwin and you didn’t kill Wilfred. Not,” he added with a dark look, “that I ever believed you had. However.” He paused and drew in a breath, looking very much like he didn’t enjoy his job a great deal in that moment. “I know damn well you’re hiding something from me, and it seems to be another blasted corpse!”
“Don’t say anything, Harry,” Clarinda begged him. “He was just making it up, weren’t you, Harry, to protect Mrs Fletcher?”
Harry looked up at Mr Formby and knew the man wouldn’t let it lie. He could say what he liked, but in the end it would lead back to Joe Browning.
“My uncle, Mr Formby,” he said, his voice bleak as Clarinda stifled a sob. “I killed my uncle, Joe Browning.”
“What?” Beryl exclaimed, staring at him, wide-eyed with horror
. “But, Harry, when? Why after all this time?”
Harry frowned at her. “That’s why I ran away in the first place. Why I came back here. I knew you’d come from around this part of Kent, and ... and I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so I just headed in this direction.”
“What on earth are you talking about, Harry?” Beryl demanded.
Harry took a breath and looked up at Mr Formby. “My Uncle Joe was a bully, much like Edwin,” he added with a grimace. “He was picking on some poor woman in a bar, back in Southwark, where I come from. He was drunk and belligerent and I was afraid it would get ugly, so I took him outside. We fought and ... and I knocked him down and killed him. I didn’t mean to ...” he said, wondering if maybe now that he was a viscount he had a chance of evading getting his neck stretched, when Beryl interrupted again.
“Harry? What are you blithering on about?” she said, looking increasingly annoyed with him. “Are you saying you killed your uncle Joe before you came here, what eight, nine years ago?”
Harry nodded, feeling sick to his stomach as Clarinda sobbed quietly, holding onto his hand so tight his own fingers were growing numb.
“Well, the next time you kill someone I’d make a better job of it if I were you,” she said, her voice tart as she folded her arms. “For the devil was here not six months before your father died. Drunk and nasty, he was, and on the scrounge for money as usual. You were out, so you’d not have seen him, but I sent him on his way with a flea in his ear, I can tell you.”
“What?” Harry said, his voice faint. “B-but ... I knocked him down. He was perfectly still, and ... and there was blood ... everywhere!”
“Where there’s no sense, there’s no feeling,” Beryl said, shaking her head with impatience. “He’s not dead, Harry, and the inspector is welcome to go and check that out for himself. Unless, of course, the miserable devil has drunk himself to death by now, but I think we’ve had all the luck we’re entitled to for one day, don’t you, son?”
Harry stared at her for a moment, too stunned to reply, and then he started to laugh.
***
They had to wait until Harry was out of mourning before they could marry.
Six, long, long, interminable months.
There were times Harry thought he might well lose his grip on his sanity, particularly when Clarinda spend much of her time doing her very best to seduce him. Her best was becoming increasingly torturous to refuse, too, and Harry’s resolve was close to its breaking point. The only thing that kept him determined was the idea that any child of his would have no doubts as to their parentage. They would be married, and the child would have the certainty of knowing his or her name and where they’d come from.
In truth, he knew Clarinda agreed with him, and now that they were officially engaged, she was content to wait, only ... she did love to tease him.
But finally, the waiting was over, they would be married in the morning. He had only to endure one more night all alone in that grand, old, oak, four-poster bed that generations of Stamfords had slept in before him. Before he went up, though, Harry stood before the portrait of his father. He stared at the likeness, believing he saw it now, an echo of his own face in the implacable old man. Harry raised a glass to him, feeling a rush of emotion for the irascible fellow who had become his kin, even though he’d never known Harry truly was the son he’d wished for so hard.
“Well, you old goat,” he said, smiling up at those rather devilish dark eyes. “I hope you’re satisfied.” Harry chuckled to himself and downed the last of his brandy, and he rather thought Alistair Preston would be beside himself with delight. His two despised nephews dead and his own son marrying Clarinda to carry on the name.
Yes, he’d be well satisfied with that.
Harry made his way upstairs and went to bed, closing his eyes and trying to persuade his brain that sleeping was really the best idea. But Clarinda was just a few doors away, down the corridor, and the idea was tormenting him far too much to relax.
There had been snowfall the past two days, so it had seemed to Harry far safer to have his bride under his own roof, rather than find she couldn’t get to the church because the roads were impassable. He’d waited quite long enough, and nothing short of an act of God would stop the big day if he had anything to do with it.
He’d go bloody mad.
Sighing, Harry tried to focus on his plans for Stamford and all the ideas that usually jostled in his brain with such excitement. Tonight, however, they eluded him, and his thoughts returned to Clarinda. The fact that the squire wasn’t much further away didn’t seem to impede visions of stealing into her room and taking what was rightfully his.
Grumbling and muttering, he punched his pillow into submission, lay his head down, and resolutely closed his eyes again.
And then he heard the faintest creak of a well-oiled hinge.
Smiling in the dark, he played dead, keeping his breathing steady and even, waiting until she was almost beside the bed. Then, moving fast, he reached out and grabbed her about the waist, hauling Clarinda into the bed with such speed that she barely had time to squeal before his mouth found hers.
He drew back, staring down at her, breathless and laughing.
“What’s this?” he demanded, holding her pinned against the mattress and trying in vain to sound serious. “Are you a burglar? Have you come to murder me in my bed? Do I need to call Mr Formby back, perhaps?”
Clarinda snorted, her lovely profile dimly visible in the moonlight that spilled through the curtains. “Well, if you feel that way, I’ll leave.”
“Not until I know what you’re about, wench,” he said, giving her a little shake and enjoying himself thoroughly. “What did you come here for?”
He thought she blushed then, but she stared back at him nonetheless, her face determined. “Harry Preston, if you don’t know by now what it is I want ...” she began, sounding indignant. But Harry decided that was answer enough, after all.
He kissed her, long and hard and she softened in his arms, suddenly warm and pliant as he released her hands, too eager to explore her himself to hold her captive any longer. She slid her arms around his neck, pulling him closer still as his hand skimmed her side. He felt the decadent curve of her breast, warm and soft through the simple cotton night gown, and then the delicious swell of her hip beneath a trim waist.
“Clara,” he said, feeling her name upon his lips like a smile. “Clara, my love.”
She sighed by way of reply, shifting to accommodate his weight, cradling his body within hers. With growing impatience, he wrestled with her night gown, cursing the simple ties that seemed to defy his eager fingers, suddenly all thumbs. Clara chuckled, a slightly wicked sound in the darkness as she batted his anxious hands away and drew each tie apart in turn, revealing a moonlit landscape of smooth white skin that stole his breath.
“Tell me you love me,” she said, her voice soft and all at once a little shy. Harry paused, looking down at her.
“I love you,” he said, hearing the joy behind the words, the desire to laugh at the sheer happiness of finally having everything he’d ever dreamed of, and never truly believed would be his.
“Say it again,” she breathed against his neck, nipping at his earlobe and making him squirm
“No,” he chuckled against her skin, capturing the tantalising peak of one pink nipple in his mouth and hearing her intake of breath with satisfaction. But she was not to be denied.
“Say it again,” she demanded, and he heard the imperious tone with a thrill of delight.
“No,” he repeated, taunting her just a little. “You’re far too spoiled, you dreadful creature. Your father has a great deal to answer for, but now ... you’ll answer to me, Miss Bow.”
“Oh really?” she said, the tone sugar sweet as her hand slid down his chest, questing lower until she curled her elegant fingers over the one part of him that his brain could no longer control.
“Oh, God,” he moaned, closing his eyes as she stroked the
silky skin, feeling her smiling against his lips.
“Say it again, Harry,” she said in a sing song voice, her mouth brushing his, teasing and inviting all at once. “Say it again.”
“I love you,” he murmured, perfectly content to be vanquished by her. “I love you, I love you, I love ...”
But there were no words required after that, nothing else needed to be said as he found his place inside her, in her body and heart, in the warmth of their home, where they both belonged.
***
Harry stood in the freezing chapel, staring at the frost patterns on the windows and feeling his heart thud in his chest with anticipation. Last night had been the stuff of his wildest imaginings and more, and he was eager to get his bride alone as quickly as possible.
He glanced over at the pews to see his mother was already sniffling, and staring at him with such pride that he was forced to look away. Beside her, Reggie sat with Mr Pennyworth, the two of them grinning at Harry and taking surreptitious nips from a silver hip flask to keep out the cold. Harry wished they’d offer him some, as the chapel in November was bloody freezing and his toes were numb.
Baden was stood beside him, looking very pleased at having been selected as best man. He’d been as good as his word and surprised Harry by taking a serious interest in the running of the estate. Mouldering in the country hadn’t been as tiresome as he’d anticipated, and he’d become Squire Bow’s shadow, in much the same way Harry had once been. The squire had married Mildred the month before, not caring a hoot for society’s opinion for mourning a man who had hopefully gone to the devil. He and Mildred seemed blissfully happy together, and the squire content to have a new apprentice to discuss all the latest in agricultural progress.
Harry had found Baden a neat little house on the edge of the estate, and the two men often enjoyed a quiet drink together at The White Stag. Rumour had it that Baden was also enjoying the company of a rich widow over in Appledore, but that was his own affair.
Harry held his breath as Clarinda finally appeared. She was a vision in a pale gold dress, a velvet pelisse in the same colour trimmed with swan’s down making her look like a Christmas angel as she stood framed in the chapel doorway. The squire stood at her side, his ruddy face aglow, looking fit to burst with pride. Harry watched his intended coming down the aisle and felt he might do likewise, such a beauty as he’d found for his wife.
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