by Beth Andrews
John shot up out of his chair, slapping his hand against his forehead. He began to pace about the room like one distracted, while Lydia stared up at him in a kind of wonder.
‘My God!’ he cried. ‘What a fool I’ve been.’
‘Whatever is the matter, John?’
John halted in his stride, standing directly over her and looking down at her with a strange mixture of triumph and sadness.
‘I know who killed her, Lydia,’ he said with quiet confidence.
* * * *
For a few seconds Lydia was quite deprived of speech. Her mouth indeed opened, but no sound emerged from her parted lips. She did not doubt John, but it was such a sudden and unexpected development.
‘How can you know?’ she demanded when she at last recovered herself.
‘Do you not see?’ He grasped her two hands in his and pulled her up to face him. ‘It was the hands.’
‘The hands?’ Lydia was more puzzled than ever.
‘Yes. I am a simpleton not to have seen it before.’ He squeezed her hands painfully in his own large fingers, before continuing more slowly, ‘When Kate entered that room, she saw a hand reach across to the candle. She saw it for only a moment before the room was plunged into complete darkness. It was not until she spoke to you that day that she realized the hand she saw did not belong to Sir Hector. It wasn’t his hand!’
Lydia stared at him, allowing his words to slowly but strongly pry open the door of her mind. She understood something of what he was saying, but still did not grasp the entire meaning.
‘You do not mean to say,’ she gasped out, ‘that Sir Hector had a woman in his bed! At his age!’
To her consternation, John flung back his head and burst into a peal of laughter. Indeed, he was so full of mirth that he quite forgot his manners, dropping back into his chair, so convulsed that he was even forced to wipe a tear or two from his eyes.
‘I do not find it at all amusing,’ she scolded him, not at all inclined to share his emotions.
‘What is going on here?’ her aunt’s voice, speaking from the open doorway, distracted them both for a moment. ‘Surely this is no time for such mirth!’
‘John is telling me that Sir Hector was keeping a mistress at Bellefleur,’ Lydia informed her.
‘Impossible!’ Even Camilla found this camel too large to swallow. ‘Next you will be saying that Kate was his natural daughter.’
‘I fear that you have misunderstood me, my love,’ John corrected Lydia, having managed to gain control of his emotions.
‘You mean to say,’ his love demanded, ‘that he had a man in his bed with him?’
‘This grows more scandalous by the minute!’ Camilla gasped, horrified.
‘Calm yourselves, both of you.’
For the benefit of the older woman, he explained what he had been discussing with Lydia. Camilla, however, was no more enlightened than her niece, so John kindly undertook to explain himself more clearly.
‘There was,’ he said, ‘only one person in the bed when Kate walked in, and that person was not Sir Hector.’
‘Oh!’ the two women exclaimed together.
‘Sir Hector,’ John continued more gravely, ‘has not, I fear, been in that bed for some time - and never will again, if I am correct in my suspicions.’
‘But who—?’ Lydia began.
‘I will say no more on that head now,’ John stopped her impetuous words. ‘After all, it is possible that I am mistaken - though I do not think it.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’ she asked.
‘We are going back to Bellefleur,’ he announced.
‘All of us?’ Aunt Camilla could not help but be surprised.
‘Yes.’ He nodded decisively. ‘We are all involved in this, in some manner. It is only fitting that we should all be present.’
‘When do we go?’
‘Now. There is no time to lose.’ John turned to Aunt Camilla. ‘I want you to go to Mrs Wardle-Penfield, ma’am. We will need her carriage.’
‘I do not know if I can persuade her,’ Camilla said doubtfully.
‘Tell her it is of the utmost urgency.’ His tone brooked no argument. ‘If she is inclined to refuse, tell her I am asking and that it will be to her own credit and for the good of all in Diddlington.’
Even while he spoke, he was moving towards the door, his hat and gloves in hand. There was purpose and determination in every word he spoke and each step he took.
‘Where are you off to, John?’ Lydia enquired, following him to the front door.
‘I go to fetch my father and d’Almain. I want them both there as well.’
‘It will be quite a squeeze in Mrs Wardle-Penfield’s carriage,’ she complained.
He bent and kissed her squarely on the nose.
‘They will go in the landau,’ he told her. ‘I will return as soon as I am able, to accompany you and your aunt. Wait for me.’
‘Of course.’
She was able to say no more, for he was already half-way to the street, his final words being flung over his shoulder as he went. With long, quick strides he sped up the street while she stood looking after him in some consternation. Yet she did not doubt for a moment that he had solved the riddle of the two murders, and that the Frenchman was saved.
Aunt Camilla was pulling on her bonnet, her face creased with worry.
‘I am afraid, Lydia,’ she said, her fingers trembling as she took her niece’s hand.
‘Do not worry, Aunt,’ Lydia answered her confidently. All will be well.’
Chapter Twenty-two
A VERY PALPABLE HIT
Mrs Wardle-Penfield was surprisingly quick to accede to their request. She said that if John asked for it, there was no question but that it must be a matter of importance. He was not one to deal with trifles. Lydia had never liked her so well as she did in that moment. However, there was no time to waste upon idle thanks. They must be going, and so the horses were harnessed and the carriage prepared with unprecedented speed.
Despite their haste, it was almost an hour before they drew up in front of Aunt Camilla’s cottage to wait for John. At least he did not prove dilatory, but arrived a mere five minutes later, in the famous landau with his father and d’Almain. Lawrence Cummings, an employee at the inn and one whom Mr Thomas Savidge had deputized and had quitted himself well against the smugglers in what was now referred to by the locals as ‘The Battle of Wickham Wood’, was also present, riding one of the horses from the inn’s stables.
As promised, John shared the carriage with the two ladies. It was a silent trio, as if each were afraid to speak. For her part, Lydia felt some premonition of danger, which was a sensation unfamiliar enough to induce quietness. She suspected that her aunt simply did not know what to say, and considered it best to leave her as she was. As for John, she knew him well enough to be sure that he would tell her all she needed to know at the proper time.
Their pace was brisk but not excessive, and it was perhaps forty minutes before they reached the drive at Bellefleur. Several faces appeared at the windows to witness their arrival, for such a party had not paid a visit to the great house in many a year.
The two women and four men marched up the two steps to the front door, leaving their conveyances and cattle standing on the drive. John’s father, being the most senior and official member of their group, knocked loudly. It needed only three raps before the door was opened and Mrs Chalfont herself stood frowning at them all.
‘What is the meaning of this, Mr Savidge?’ she enquired in her best mock-patrician manner.
‘We are here to see Sir Hector,’ John answered, giving her back look for look.
The housekeeper’s face was as hard and impenetrable as the sandstone around her. ‘I am sure you are aware that such a request is impossible to grant,’ she said.
‘It is not a request, ma’am,’ John’s father spoke now. ‘We are going up.’
Mrs Chalfont remained very firmly planted where she stood, block
ing their entry like a tree planted by the waters.
‘I think,’ she replied, not obviously impressed, ‘that you had best return to town. We are not prepared to receive visitors today.’
She would have closed the door, but John’s booted foot prevented this.
‘I hope you do not mean to refuse us entry,’ he said, dangerously quiet. ‘I do not wish to use a lady roughly, but I will do so if I must.’
‘What do you mean by this, sir?’
This objection was not voiced by Mrs Chalfont, but by Mr Tweedy. He must have been lurking in the hall behind the housekeeper, and now pushed forward to assist the lady.
‘I have no quarrel with you, Tweedy,’ John’s father said evenly. ‘At least not yet. We are here to see Sir Hector, and will not be put off. If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.’
The valet looked from father to son, filling the doorway, and appeared to make up his mind.
‘You had better let the gentlemen in, Martha,’ he said.
Mrs Chalfont hesitated for a moment, but apparently came to the inevitable conclusion that resistance was useless. She stepped back reluctantly and allowed the unwelcome guests to enter. They all pressed forward. First the two Savidges crossed the threshold, followed by Camilla and the Frenchman. Lydia trailed behind them, with Mr Cummings bringing up the rear.
‘We shall go up now,’ John repeated his father’s phrase. ‘D’Almain, we may need your assistance.’
‘What about me, sir?’ Mr Cummings asked, clearly annoyed at being left out.
‘You,’ John informed him with a slight smile, ‘will stay below and keep Mrs Chalfont company.’
‘I think it best if I go ahead and prepare Sir Hector for your arrival,’ the housekeeper said, moving forward.
‘No.’ John stretched out a large hand and laid hold of the lady’s arm, halting her progress. ‘I think not.’
‘Don’t let her out of your sight, Cummings,’ Mr Savidge said.
‘I do not understand ...’ Mr Tweedy muttered, his gaze moving from John to Mrs Chalfont.
‘No,’ John said again. ‘I truly believe that you do not.’
‘Perhaps,’ Mrs Chalfont suggested, her bosom rising and falling rather markedly, ‘Mr Tweedy can go and prepare Sir Hector.’
‘Tweedy can come with us,’ the innkeeper allowed. ‘But he’d best keep his mouth shut.’
‘I am coming too,’ Lydia insisted. She did not know what they expected to find above stairs, but it did not sound at all pleasant, and so she added, ‘You had better stay here, Aunt.’
‘Yes,’ Camilla agreed faintly, her nerves already near to breaking. ‘But do not be long, I pray you.’
‘This should not take many minutes,’ John reassured her, and started up the stairs.
They all ascended in a close cluster, moving quickly and steadily.
‘You really should have permitted Mrs Chalfont to go ahead,’ Mr Tweedy said, swallowing so noticeably that even Lydia, several steps behind him, could not fail to perceive it. He had seemed almost menacing on her previous visit, but now she saw that although he might be dour, he was more fearful than fearsome.
‘If I were a fool,’ John said to him. ‘And I would advise you, sir, to say nothing more until this business is finished and done with.’
They marched onward across the upstairs landing and down a long hallway until they reached a solid oak doorway. Here there was the briefest pause before John placed his hand upon the door handle, turned it, and flung the door open unceremoniously.
‘What the deuce!’ a muffled voice cried in the semi-gloom.
‘We are come to speak with you, Sir Hector!’ John called out loudly.
‘How dare you ...’ the voice began again, but quickly ceased when John stepped forward, showing that he was not intimidated.
Lydia, pressing forward past the Frenchman, could clearly see a figure huddled beneath the covers in the great canopied bed. As she watched, the figure rose up with astonishing speed and agility, considering that Sir Hector was supposed to be a man of more than four-score and ten summers.
In an instant, the bed-ridden gentleman had bounded out of the other side of the bed and dashed toward the window.
‘Catch him, John!’ Mr Savidge shouted.
John made a valiant effort to obey his father, leaping across the now empty bed. Even d’Almain rushed forward, trying to intercept their quarry by circumnavigating the bed altogether. Only Mr Tweedy stood rooted to the spot, though whether from surprise or confusion Lydia could not tell.
In the end, it was of no avail. The man who all these weeks had hidden himself away at Bellefleur reached the window before anyone could stop him and wrenched open the heavy draperies. Just for a moment, Lydia saw him glance back at his pursuers, his face silhouetted against the sunlight now pouring into the room.
‘Good God!’ she cried involuntarily. ‘It’s Nose!’
Even as she spoke, the man drew back a pace and, with a courage born of desperation, flung himself at the closed window. There was the sharp, clear sound of glass shattering. Mr Cole dropped from view followed almost immediately by a dull thud and a loud moan.
Meanwhile, the three other men had all reached the window at almost the exact same moment and peered out after the fugitive.
‘Mon dieu!’ d’Almain cried, reverting instinctively to his native tongue.
‘Not dead,’ said Thomas Savidge, less dramatically.
‘But I think there is very little danger that he will escape,’ John concluded with grim satisfaction.
‘We have him, all right.’
With that, the trio at the window turned and sauntered back toward the two who remained frozen just inside the doorway. Mr Tweedy was as pale as a mistletoe berry, Lydia thought. For herself, she was more confused than ever. The entire incident, from the instant that John opened the door until now, had taken less than a minute, but every detail was as deeply etched upon her mind as if it were a play she had seen performed a thousand times.
‘John,’ she croaked, her throat almost closing up in the sudden release of pent-up emotion, ‘I swear that was ... it was Mr Cole!’
‘Quite right, my love.’ He chuckled softly. ‘And I assure you, he is not a ghost.’
‘I did not think that he was.’
He placed his arm about her shoulder and led her from the room, walking just ahead of the rest. Then, as if recalled to his duties, he turned his head.
‘Papa,’ he said, ‘you had better go and do what you can for the poor man. See if you can help him, d’Almain. I fear he may need a surgeon.’
‘Surgeon!’ Mr Savidge thundered. ‘What he needs is the hangman.’ But he accompanied the Frenchman all the same.
‘This is maddening!’ Lydia cried, her patience with John crumbling at last. ‘I demand to know what is going on, John.’
‘Never fear, sweetheart,’ he answered calmly. ‘I am about to reveal all.’
Chapter Twenty-three
THE HEART OF THE MATTER
John escorted Lydia to the airy drawing-room where she had been received on her previous visit to Bellefleur. As at that time, Aunt Camilla was there with Mrs Chalfont. However, on this occasion Mrs Chalfont’s arm was held firmly by Mr Cummings.
‘She tried to run off, sir,’ Cummings reported to John when he entered. ‘Fought like a wildcat, too, but I’ve got her now.’
‘And such language as she used ...’ Camilla was clearly scandalized.
It was only then that Lydia realized the woman’s hands were tied behind her back. Her face wore a wrathful look, like some pagan goddess intent on revenge for mortal hubris.
‘This is an outrage.’ She almost spit the words from between her clenched teeth.
‘Good job, Cummings,’ was all John said to this.
‘Where is Henri?’ Aunt Camilla asked, seeking her beloved and not finding him.
Before John could answer, d’Almain himself appeared, along with John’s father, bearing Mr Cole
between them. The injured man was clearly in a great deal of pain, his face twisted and bloody from a few shards of the broken glass which had cut his left cheek and gashed his forehead.
‘His leg, I think, it is broken,’ the Frenchman said as they laid him on a nearby sofa.
‘I’ve sent one of the servants for the surgeon,’ Mr Savidge informed his son.
‘But what does it all mean?’ Aunt Camilla almost wailed, her nerves still reeling from the events of the past half-hour. ‘Where is Sir Hector?’
John gave a slight cough, preparing a lengthy speech, but was forestalled by Lydia.
‘If the man in the bed, whom everyone thought was Sir Hector, is really Mr Cole,’ she said slowly, her eyes fixed on her betrothed, ‘then I suppose we may assume that the man we thought was Mr Cole, was actually Sir Hector?’
Camilla Denton gasped. ‘But that means that Sir Hector is….’
‘Dead.’ John finished the thought which she dare not voice. ‘I am afraid that you are correct.’
‘I swear before God that we didn’t kill him!’ Cole cried out from his recumbent position.
‘No?’ John was not convinced. ‘In that case, why were you so eager to disguise his death? Why disfigure and burn his corpse beyond recognition?’
‘Do you recall, John,’ Lydia asked him, ‘how we wondered, if the murderer meant to hide the identity of his victim, why he left the watch with the body?’
‘Of course now it is easy to understand why,’ John responded.
‘Cole wanted us to identify the body as his own.’
‘Several people had observed the unusual watch.’ John nodded in the direction of the Frenchman. ‘Monsieur d’Almain and more than one person at the Golden Cockerel among them.’
‘But how did you know this?’ Lydia asked him the question which was on everyone’s mind.
He smiled. ‘It was you and your father who provided the inspiration, my love.’
‘My father and I?’ She was mystified.
‘Yes.’ He paused, moving to stand beside the prominent fireplace like an actor mounting the stage. The other occupants of the room watched his performance in mute fascination. In addition to the party which had accompanied him, the servants were huddled together in a far corner, perhaps more horrified and confused than anyone.
