“Miranda . . .” He stopped, plunged his head into his hands. “You’re as mad as Pilkington, you know. Stark raving. And far too good for an unmitigated wreck like me.”
I gave him the look women reserve for men when they are being quite impossible. “How is it that you who know yourself best cannot see beneath the surface? Or do you simply refuse to look?” I stood, braced my palms on the desk and leaned close. “You are the same man you always were, Jason. Oh, likely not as heedless or careless as the young man who went to war, but certainly as kind and generous. Intelligent. Certainly more responsible.”
Jason moved his hands away from his face, holding them out to display his missing fingers, his scars in all their ugliness. “Your impeccable manners do you credit, Mrs. Tyrell, but if you think your charitable words will change my thinking, you are fair and far out. Go away. I do not need you preaching reason into a world gone insane.”
I held his gaze for a moment before I stood, hoping I was conveying that my acquiescence was but temporary. And then I walked out, head high. I had a letter to write.
Without Mr. Pilkington to lead them, the villagers confined themselves to sullen rumblings over the next few days. Sir Basil continued his visits to Lunsford Hall, though both he and Cressida shunned Jason as if he were indeed the Devil incarnate. All three Talmadges called as well, Mr. Miles Talmadge so unctuous and falsely indignant on Jason’s behalf that I found myself grinding my teeth. I had no doubt the man was dancing a gleeful jig inside. Either Jason would be exonerated and marry his sister or he would be found guilty and hang. Either way the Talmadges would have their revenge. If this reasoning did not quite make sense, well, neither did murder and attempted mayhem in a peaceful corner of Lincolnshire.
Jason initiated correspondence with several men of influence, including the archdeacon for our area and the Bishop of Peterborough. From my papa I heard not a word, but I kept telling myself there had scarcely been time for a response to my plea for help. The local constable paid us a visit, informing us that Jason, his valet, Stebbins, and myself would be called as witnesses at Mr. Pilkington’s inquest. Mr. Guthrie rode out from the village to tell us he too would be testifying.
I feared for Jason and, of course, did not hesitate to tell him so. He, miserable man, remained so stoic and taciturn I wanted to pound my fists on his chest, beg him to have a care. Which he neatly avoided by shutting himself in his bookroom, coming out only for dinner, at which time he discussed nothing more weighty than the weather.
I knew what I would say at the inquest, but how to do it without sounding as if I were scattering wild accusations for the sole purpose of saving my supposed lover’s neck?
We were not a happy household.
On the morning of the third day—with the poor, misguided curate’s burial delayed until each member of the jury might examine the grievous wounds inflicted by the supposed demon’s claws—the inquest convened in the assembly rooms at the local inn. Josie had volunteered to accompany me, and I had gladly accepted, knowing I might be the only female present at what I feared could be a travesty of justice. And then there was the little matter of a good part of the village being convinced I was a whore. Alas, other than Thomas Guthrie’s, Josie’s seemed to be the only friendly face. Sir Basil and Miles Talmadge were present, both looking grim. The remainder of the visages present appeared savage enough to demand Jason’s liver and lights on the spot, and to the devil with waiting for the hangman. And then a few familiar faces slid into the room at the back—Amos, Charles, John Coachman, the head stableboy, the guards Mr. Guthrie hired in Boston.
We were not alone.
A sudden heightened buzz drew my attention to another newcomer. Far from slinking into the back, he strode down the center aisle, offered a brisk nod to the constable and the coroner, and took a seat in the front row. Whispers rippled through the room, the message finally reaching our ears. “The Lord Lieutenant,” Josie hissed. “That’s a good thing, ain’t it, missus?”
Breath whooshed out of me. It was true. I suspected that if the Lord Lieutenant wished Jason to be indicted for murder, he would have stayed as far away as possible.
The proceedings were called to order, the first testimony from the man who had found Mr. Pilkington’s body. “Terrible it was, sirs,” he cried, shaking his head. “Him lying there like our Lord on the cross, with his head bashed in, claw marks on his face, and his clothes fair ripped to shreds.”
I grimaced, forced my fears into a deep dark hole, and concentrated on what the witnesses were saying. There was testimony about the deteriorating situation in Fenley-on-the-Marsh, testimony about the growing animosity between Jason and the curate, about the words exchanged the night of the torchlit parade.
All in all, a damning array.
Stebbins testified to the curate’s fanatical attack that night, adding with considerable vehemence that his master was an honorable gentleman, a kind and generous man who had distinguished himself in the war but was never given to violence at home. Jason’s valet testified that his master had never left the house the night of the murder. And then it was my turn.
I thought the sudden burst of noise in the room was due to the calling of a female witness, or more likely because each man present was confiding his opinion of the fallen woman to his neighbor. I was mistaken. As I reached the platform that served as a witness stand and turned to face the audience, I could only gape at the three newcomers marching down the aisle to take seats beside the Lord Lieutenant of Lincolnshire.
Two of the three were well known to me. One was my Papa. I suspected the clerical gentleman with him was the Bishop of Peterborough. The third, a tall, distinguished white-haired gentleman I had not seen in over a decade. He remained standing while his companions took their seats. “I am Kenilworth,” he told the coroner. With me, my son, Matthew Chastain, Bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, and you are no doubt already familiar with the Right Reverend Horace Rutledge, Bishop of Peterborough. We beg your pardon for arriving so late to these proceedings, but in our anxiety to see justice done—to act, en effet, as amici curiae in this case—we have had to travel a considerable distance. But please do not let us delay the inquest any further. My granddaughter may continue her testimony forthwith.” And with that Grandpapa—Ralph, Duke of Kenilworth—sat down. The crowd, almost as stunned as I was, offered nothing more than a rippling whoosh of surprise.
My heart was stuck somewhere in my throat, and my tongue had swelled to the size of a melon. Not that my testimony was needed now. No jury could fail to see which way the wind was blowing. Defy a duke, the Lord Lieutenant, and two bishops? It was not going to happen.
Dousing my surge of elation, I reminded myself that exonerating Jason would not solve our overall problem. We had a killer to unmask. And I still had a part to play.
Summoning centuries of Chastain pride, I described the events I had seen at Lunsford Hall the evening before the murder. I did not hesitate to repeat Mr. Pilkington’s heated epithets, which I suggested were a sign of exaggerated fanaticism as I could assure the court I was a respectable widow with a child to support. I would never jeopardize my position by misbehaving before either my son or a hawk-eyed staff.
A questioning murmur wafted through the court. I thought—I hoped—it signified some doubt about Mr. Pilkington’s allegations. I was, after all, the daughter of a bishop, granddaughter of a duke.
“I should like to point out,” I added, “that I have been told about the condition of the body.” Here I would have to be careful, deprecating, offering my information as if what could a feeble female possibly know about such things, but . . . An altogether heinous approach to the truth, but if I were not to give offense and have them all looking at me as if I were the most notorious demi-rep in Lincolnshire . . .
“From the testimony given by Mr. Bales”—I nodded at the church sexton—“Mr. Pilkington likely died from a blow to the head. And there was, I understand, little blood from the claw marks. Therefore it seems likely
the claw marks were made after Mr. Pilkington died. That they were an effort on the part of a very human murderer to frighten people into thinking a demon killed him. And I believe I can assure you in the presence of two high churchmen that the only demons recognized by the Church of England are demons of the soul. The terrible things that prey on our minds, sometimes turning even the best and handsomest among us to evil.”
Another murmur from the crowd, quickly quieted when the coroner posed a question. “Then how do you account for the claw marks, Mrs. Tyrell?”
“Some people keep collections, do they not?” I returned, assuming my most wide-eyed and innocent expression. “Butterflies, shells, toy soldiers? Why should someone not have a collection of animal paws? A bear paw, for example.”
There were several indrawn breaths from the crowd—possibly from those who recalled the elder Mr. Talmadge’s collections. I forced myself not to look at Miles Talmadge, but I hoped he was squirming.
The verdict did not take long. Although the villagers crowded into the courtroom remained silent as the pronouncement of “death by person or persons unknown” rang through the room, I could feel their sullen anger. Even in the presence of two bishops, they seemed determined to cling to their fantasy of demons stalking the land.
Our ordeal was not over.
Chapter Twenty-seven
During the flurry of introductions that followed, I caught both Papa and Grandpapa studying Jason then glancing at me, their expressions revealing little. I did not, however, see the freezing disapproval they had turned on Avery. And, most importantly, they were both here. I had asked for Papa’s help in laying a demon and received what Jason might have termed an army in place of a single regiment. I was blessed. I could hardly wait to introduce Chas to his grandfather and great-grandfather.
“Beg pardon, Mrs. Tyrell.” Sir Basil, anxiety overlaying his customary affectation, drew my attention. “I wonder if I might make a suggestion?”
“Of course.” Though I could not help but wonder what a would-be London fop could possibly contribute to the morning’s events.
“It has been pointed out to me,” he said with some deliberation, “that the villagers are restless—there’s even talk of taking matters into their own hands.”
“Not again!”
“I fear so.” Sir Basil shook his head. “I know you must be anxious to be reunited with your father and the duke, but it might be better if you and Lunsford departed by the rear door in an unmarked closed carriage. You could shelter at my home for a few hours while tempers cool.”
How very odd. For all his good manners and unctuous words, Sir Basil was not a friend. Then again, he was on the verge of becoming a member of the family. And he had not totally shunned us during these terrible days of suspicion and death.
I was saved from further efforts to look a gift horse in the mouth when Jason and Tom Guthrie joined us. To my surprise, they both nodded solemnly and agreed to Sir Basil’s suggestion. Evidently, ominous rumbles persisted from Mr. Pilkington’s loyal followers. A carriage was ordered from the inn’s stables, our assurances given to Papa, Grandpapa, and the Bishop of Peterborough that we would join them at Lunsford Hall in a few hours. Then Jason and I slipped out the rear door into a carriage where the curtains had already been drawn tight over the windows, leaving Mr. Guthrie to escort our guests out the front door after we had safely made our departure. We sank into the squabs with near-matching sighs. One crucial battle down, though the war was yet to be won.
As the wheels rumbled over the cobblestones in the inn’s courtyard, my eyes popped open, to discover Jason staring at me, his blessed face rapidly moving from hopeful questioning to resignation to withdrawal. In the space of seconds he simply went away, every thought and emotion tucked up inside and a blank façade slammed down in my face.
“Don’t you dare!” I hissed. “You cannot look as if you wish to kiss me one minute then turn more cold than an Arctic winter the next.”
Silence.
“Jason!”
He remained sunk into a corner, eyes shut. “You cannot want me, Miranda. “I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t allow it,” I sputtered. “And what do you have to say about whether I love you or not, miserable man? I’ll do as I please. Just as I did when I ran away with Avery. I knew what I wanted at eighteen, just as I know now. If you cannot love me, then you must say so. But let me warn you? I’ll have none of your self-sacrificing nonsense. It’s the truth I want from you, and nothing but the truth.” Hands fisted, I glared at him.
Through my entire tirade, Jason’s eyes had remained shut, though I thought I caught a twitch in his unscarred cheek. With a nearly audible snap, his eyelids opened to reveal dark depths, still questioning. He would not, possibly could not, believe I was sincere.
So I did what I had longed to do for some weeks now. I pounced. Scarcely a foreign technique, as any wife knows who has ever attempted to budge her husband out of a fit of the sullens. For a moment he remained immobile. Foolish, noble man that he was, undoubtedly fighting a last battle against the demons of ugliness that had taken possession of his brain. And then his arms enfolded me, hugging me tight. His lips firmed against mine, and he kissed me, really kissed me, as if he had never held nor kissed a woman before.
And for both of us there was suddenly a new world stretching before us, our past of memories, both warm and bitter, tucked into their proper niches where they would enhance, not hurt our life to come. Jason tugged off my bonnet, kissing my cheeks, my nose, my ears, my neck, and back to my lips. His hands moved to places no one had touched in a very long time. I reveled in it.
Shouts. Rattling harness as the horses plunged to a sudden halt.
“What the—” Only Jason’s tight grip kept me from flying off the seat onto the floor.
A masked man, carrying a double-barreled pistol, opened the carriage door and vaulted into the opposite seat. “Rest easy now. We’ve but a short ways to go.”
What new start was this? In spite of the mask, I would almost swear the man was a complete stranger.
Clearly, Jason had come to a conclusion quicker than I. “If Sir Basil thinks to hold us until I grant him custody of my nephew,” he spat out, “then he is very much mistaken. I’ll never—”
“That fribble,” the masked man scoffed. “What’s he to do with anything?”
Jason snapped his mouth shut and glared, now as I puzzled as I was.
It has been pointed out to me that the villagers are restless. . . That’s what Sir Basil had said.
He’d been used. By someone very clever indeed. Jason and I exchanged a grimace of understanding.
We were in trouble. Everyone who cared about us assumed we were tucked up safely at Sir Basil’s and would return home in time for dinner. By which time we would likely be dead. Jason reached out, taking my hand in his and squeezing it tight.
“You’re working for Talmadge, are you not?” he said with remarkable aplomb to the man with the gun.
“Never heard of ’im.”
I punctuated Jason’s snort of derision with a glare of my own. “Mr. Guthrie?”
“Guthrie!” Jason exclaimed. Are you mad, woman?”
“Who knows what his intentions are?” I cried. “He seems rather too polished for a Bow Street Runner.”
I could see hope draining from Jason’s eyes as he questioned his faith in Tom Guthrie, for he’d probably thought the Runner the most likely person to sense that something was wrong and set out to find us before it was too late.
As the carriage slowed, the masked man swept back the curtains on one side, and we could see we were now on a narrow road that seemed to be taking us deeper and deeper into the fens, with bullrushes towering above marsh grass and not a field of grain in sight. The tide appeared to be low, with only a glimpse of a winding blue channel here and there.
I couldn’t look at Jason. I didn’t want him to see the fear in my eyes. The men who had taken us were not incensed villagers who could be
reminded that Jason was a neighbor and a veteran of the Napoleonic Wars, son of a viscount, and endorsed by a duke, two bishops, and the Lord Lieutenant. These men were hired assassins. Of that I had no doubt.
The villain had to be Miles Talmadge. No one else had reason to hate the Lunsfords that much. Yet was revenge truly so sweet? And after all these years?
Sir Basil lured us away from the others.
At someone else’s suggestion.
Or not.
And then there was Tom Guthrie.
The carriage halted at what appeared to be the end of a narrow peninsula, with nothing but a broad turn-around space between us and the vast salt marsh that stretched along Lincolnshire’s southern coast.
“Out.” The masked man gestured with his gun. His two cohorts jumped down from the box, looking equally menacing. There was no sign of the coachman from the inn. I could only hope the body left at the side of the road had not been a lifeless one.
We were herded down a sloping bank to a much narrower strip of sand than we had at Lunsford Hall. “Keep going,” the leader snapped. We stared. There was nowhere to go but into the marsh. “See that wreck out there? That’s where we’re headed.”
About fifty yards out, the broken hulk of a sailing ship loomed above the waving grass, its timbers shattered, its interior open to the skies. Clearly, it had been there a very long time, decades perhaps, for time and tide had worn it down to a one-sided wreck not more than fifteen or twenty feet long. Dear God, they couldn’t . . . they wouldn’t . . .
I was letting my imagination run wild.
Our plunge onto the damp sand was halted by the sound of hoofbeats, our questions finally answered as a man rode out from behind the carriage and dismounted, walking toward us as cool as you please.
“Come to gloat, Talmadge?” Jason asked.
“Oh yes.” Miles Talmadge offered a smile, all the worse for being so horridly evil. “And after you’re gone, I shall woo the foolish Cressida away from her fribble and Lunsford Hall shall be mine, for Nicholas is your heir, is he not?”
Demons of Fenley Marsh Page 20
