“And how do you know he did not set the ruffians on you in the first place, so as to appear as a hero when he rescued you?”
“Uncle Pierce!” she exclaimed, aghast. “That is really too much to accuse! I do assure you that I was in fear of the men, and he could well have been hurt when he intervened.”
“Mm ...” the old man said. “Well, I retract that suspicion. But the fact remains that he prevented you from going to see your father, went in your stead, and came away from the interview with a power-of-attorney that effectively puts him in charge of your father’s wealth.”
“I can understand that my father might feel it necessary—”
“Nonsense! He was talked into it! Maldon is backing a double certainty. He hopes to marry you and lay his hands on the money in that way, but if by any chance you should refuse him, he will have control of the Tyrrell lands.”
“That is not so. The estate will return to my father’s control when he is cleared of this charge.”
Mr. Pierce let a long moment of silence go by. Then he said, “But don’t you see, Amy, that he does not think your father will be cleared?”
Amy sprang up from her chair. “You are not to say that! Mr. Maldon will save my father!”
“And how will he do that, pray?”
“He will find out who really killed Mr. Gramont.”
“Will he so? In the face of a barrier of silence from all who wish your father dead?”
“He will save Papa!” Amy cried, clenching her fists. “He told me he would!”
The old man struggled out of his chair and came to put his arms round her. “There, there,” he said. “Poor little girl, I understand how it is that you put your trust in him. You had no one else to turn to—yes, yes, I understand. But face up to it, Amy. Mr. Maldon would be taking his life in his hands if he tried to make inquiries on this matter. The Pegmen have made it clear that your father is doomed. Anyone who interfered would be a fool—and Jeffrey Maldon is no fool! He will do nothing—there is, in fact, nothing to be done. You have put your trust in a man who will take advantage of you, my dear.”
“No, no, you don’t know him!” she cried, struggling with sobs that threatened to close up her throat. “He is brave and good
“Amy,” Uncle Pierce interrupted, “think about it. If he should be able by some miracle to clear your father, that would mean that the way was clear for you and Bernard again. That’s so, is it not?”
“Yes, but—”
“Are you really telling me that this penniless young man is going to spend his time proving your father innocent so as to hand you over at the end to his rival? No one is so altruistic, my love. I have lived seventy years and never seen such a one.”
“You ... you are wrong,” she faltered. “Mr. Maldon and I spoke of Bernard. He understands my feelings on that score.”
“Understands? You told him that if your father were proved innocent you would hope to marry Bernard still?”
“It wasn’t put into so many words. Mr. Maldon said that Papa was grieving about the unhappiness he had caused me by separating me from Bernard, and asked me if my happiness depended on Bernard.”
“And you said that it did.”
“I ... I don’t recall. But I remember that he nodded and said that it was as well to be aware of such stumbling-blocks.”
Uncle Pierce snorted. “Ha! So Bernard is a stumbling-block! That does not sound very altruistic, Amy! I don’t believe he will endanger himself or put himself to much trouble when it’s clearly to his advantage to wait for a clear field.”
“But your estimation of him is wrong, Uncle Pierce! How can I make you understand that he is not acting out of self-interest?”
“And how can I make you understand that he is not going to act at all? He will not do anything that would seriously alter the course of events. He may prate about action, but he will do nothing.”
“No, sir, he is going to find Stephen Boles and—”
“Faith, what good will that do? Even if he finds him, Boles will not change his story. If it is true—and it may be, Amy!—he can’t change it. And if it’s a lie, Boles dare not change it. The Pegmen will make sure he sticks to the same tale.”
“Mr. Maldon says that he feels the truth has something to do with the Pegmen.”
“He may be right. But having said that, there’s an end of it. Mir. Maldon will not succeed where the Excisemen and the militia have failed. Do you truly expect him to take on the Pegmen singlehanded?”
That stopped Amy in her tracks. She saw all at once how much she had expected—how much she had taken for granted—from Jeffrey Maldon. Uncle Pierce was right: Mr. Maldon had no real chance against odds like that. How could she have been so silly as to believe in him? And yet ... and yet...
“I see how you feel about it,” the old man said with great gentleness. “You don’t wish to give up the illusion of hope. The man told you a lie you wished to believe—’tis only human that you should cling to it. But now that I have told you of the trick he played—”
“Trick?”
“In getting your father to sign a power-of-attorney.”
“Oh yes. Yes, that was ... that was kept from me. I see now that he may have had a reason for preventing me from seeing Papa. Although, Uncle Pierce, if Papa had told me what he intended, I should have agreed with it.”
“Quite so. It’s the underhandedness of the act that makes it suspect. I hope it has brought you to your senses, child.”
Amy put both hands up to her face as if to smooth away the expression of despair forming there. “But what am I to do, Uncle Pierce? My father has made Mr. Maldon his lawyer and signed over his affairs to him. To whom else can I turn?” She hesitated. “Will you act for me?”
“There’s nothing I can do, Amy. In law Maldon has control. What you must do is keep an eye on him. Don’t do anything on his advice without first consulting me. At least in that way we can ensure that he gains no further ground.”
“I suppose you are right.”
“Depend on it, I know what I’m doing. I’m an old man, my love, I’ve seen rascals as plausible as Jeffrey Maldon in my time. I’ll see he does no damage.”
“But what I need is someone who will do some good! Can you see to it that he carries out the investigation that he promised?” She saw him look dubious and went on quickly, “Pray undertake this. Uncle Pierce. I know you’re not eager to go into danger, but if you have Mr. Maldon to go about asking the questions, you yourself can stay safely at home.”
This was not tactful, and the old man went red with irritation. Then he managed a laugh. “Well, I’ll try to make sure he does something,” he grunted, “but if you want my opinion there’s really nothing to be dene. However, if you tell him I am keeping watch, it may cause him to take the thing more seriously.”
“Thank you, Uncle Pierce.”
Mrs. Tyrrell returned then, with Molly bringing the tray, so that the painful conversation could be brought to an end. Mr. Pierce stayed only long enough to drink one cup of chocolate and then took his leave. Mrs. Tyrrell, rather put out, settled down with the remains of the snack. Amy excused herself and went out for a walk in the grounds. She felt unable to chit-chat with her mother after what she had been told.
It was still quite early in the morning. As she wandered through her beloved herb garden she recalled the last time she had been at work there, when Jeffrey Maldon had come to speak to her. She went hot with embarrassment. Had she genuinely thought he had cared for her, had been hurt that she refused him? This matter of the power-of-attorney put him in a new light; he was after the money after all, like so many before him.
Oh, if only Bernard had spoken for her! They might have been married by now and even these dreadful happenings would not have seemed so bad if she were Bernard’s wife. She glanced at the tall box hedge that screened the lane across which the grounds of Parall began. So often, as a child, she had run across to play with Bernard and his sisters. She found herself movin
g almost unconsciously to the little wicket-gate through which her father had come that night, and before she had time to think about it she was slipping across the lane and going through the gap in the hedge that led to the rose garden of Parall.
Everything there seemed strange—it was as if a century had gone by since she had last seen these pergolas where the scented French roses bloomed in June. She heard her own footsteps on the paving stones, the swish of her skirts against a bench—and paused.
What was she doing here? This was the house of the dead man, the man they said her father had killed! She drew up, wheeled, and was about to hurry back the way she had come. But a voice spoke her name.
“Amy!”
It was Bernard, sitting in the shade of the rose arbour. He sprang to his feet. “I didn’t expect to see you here!”
“No—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come. Forgive me, Bernard.”
They stood gazing at each other. She thought he was much paler than usual, although he always had a clear, pale complexion. He was dressed rather carelessly—no brocades or fine lace, merely a lawn shirt and a pair of grey breeches.
“These are bad days for us, Amy,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“They are indeed.” She hesitated. “How is your mother? You ... you never responded to any of my inquiries.”
“My mother is not well,” he sighed. “And matters are not improved when your inquisitive lawyer comes here to harass her.”
“My lawyer?” she said. “You mean Mr. Maldon has been here?”
“Oh aye, pretending to be busy about your affairs. Though how it can help matters to give my mother nightmares, I don’t know.”
“Bernard, I swear to you, I had no knowledge of this. It was not done with my approval.”
“That at least is something,” Bernard said. “If you have any influence with him, tell him to keep away.”
“If I have influence with him?” she repeated, rather surprised at the phrase. “Surely you know he has taken over the direction of my father’s defence?”
“No, how should I know that?”
“But did he not explain that? You said a moment ago, Bernard—‘my lawyer’.”
“I’ve heard rumours that you were seen in Winchester with him. It’s unseemly, Amy. You know what will be said about it.”
“No, what?” she countered, a little annoyed. “People say a great many things. They say my father murdered yours, but that is not true either.”
Bernard’s dark eyes travelled over her, taking in the proud tilt of the head and the firm set of the mouth. “Forgive me, Amy. I don’t really know what to think these days. My mother is at the point of despair and my sisters don’t know how to deal with her. The only one she will mind is myself. I have had scarcely a moment to think about ... to think about us.”
At once she felt a surge of protective pity. “Dear Bernard,” she murmured, holding out a hand.
He came to her and took it. “Oh, God, Amy, if you knew what I’ve been through!”
She might have replied that she too had had something to suffer; but all she said was “I know, I know,” as she touched his cheek with her fingers.
“It’s all so senseless! It’s wrecked our lives.”
“No, no, there may be something yet to be saved. Once my father’s name is cleared—”
“But how is that to be done?”
“Mr. Maldon thinks the best way is to discover the real murderer.”
“But why must he come looking for him at my house?” Bernard exclaimed, looking haunted.
“Oh, I think he is on the track of Stephen Boles.”
“Stephen Boles left Parall immediately after the inquest, Amy. It’s useless for Maldon to come here. Promise me you’ll make him stay away.”
“Yes, Bernard dear, I promise.”
He took her hand up to his lips and kissed it with fervour. It was the most passionate kiss he had ever given her—a strange fact that troubled her as she took her way homeward a moment later. Janet, Bernard’s sister, had come out to say their mother was asking for him; Bernard had hurried indoors and Janet, frowning, had stared at Amy and then turned away. Notably unwanted, Any retraced her steps.
Her hand still carried the imprint of Bernard’s kiss. She put the fingers of her other hand upon the spot. In all the time she had known Bernard he had given her some boyish hugs, one or two brotherly kisses on the cheek, and once in a game of blind man’s bluff had seized her round the waist and kissed her boisterously on the back of the neck.
But this strange salute of gratitude had had more genuine warmth in it than any of those. Gratitude? Was the most passionate feeling he could summon up for her merely gratitude because she promised to keep Mr. Maldon from worrying the family?
She sighed to herself. She had heard it said that in every love affair there is one who loves and one who receives love: it seemed that between herself and Bernard she was the giver of love. For a moment she was saddened; she almost rejected that role.
And then she thought: I’ve loved him for years, it’s too late to change now.
Besides, he needed her. His sisters were no help to him in dealing with his grieving mother; but she, Amy Tyrrell, could at least do something for him. She could tell Jeffrey Maldon to treat him with respect.
So Jeffrey Maldon, arriving at the Manor House a little after midday, found a chilly reception awaiting him.
She didn’t even ask him to sit down. “Where have you been all day, Mr. Maldon?” she inquired. “I expected you here first thing in the morning.”
He frowned, and almost perceptibly drew back. “I ask your pardon,” he said. “I didn’t know we had made an arrangement for me to come here early.”
“Naturally I expected you, since we have still a great deal to discuss.”
“Well, that is certainly true,” he agreed, recovering himself. “May I report to you on what I have been doing?”
“That is scarcely necessary. I have heard from others of your activities. The first thing I must tell you is that I absolutely forbid you to go to Parall again, where your presence yesterday caused a great deal of suffering.”
She saw the frown deepen between his brows. “How did you hear of that?” he inquired.
“Bernard told me.”
“But I understood that you and Bernard had not spoken to one another since the tragedy?”
“I went to see him this morning.”
“Went to see him?”
“Why should that surprise you? Bernard Gramont is the man I intend to marry.”
She said it because she wanted to reassure herself, but once it was said she realised that it was something of a test for Jeffrey Maldon—if he reacted strongly against the statement it would lend credence to Uncle Pierce’s view, that the man was a fortune-hunter anxious to capture her heart while she was parted from Bernard.
So she watched Mr. Maldon narrowly. But all she saw was a faint tightening of the lips.
“I am happy that you and he are on speaking terms again,” he said. “I had the impression that these recent troubles had placed an impassable barrier between you.”
“Not the least impassable,” she said, very cool. “I simply walked through the wicket-gate to Parall.”
“You went to him” Maldon remarked. “May I ask what impelled you to do so?”
She couldn’t admit the truth—that she had gone because of an impulse to put the clock back, to visit Parall again as if she were a little girl with no deeper anxieties than whether Bernard would ask for the first dance at the ball.
So instead she said, “It seemed time to take up old friendships again, particularly in view of news that Uncle Pierce had brought me—news that made me a little uncertain of new friends.”
She saw Mr. Maldon take a long, deep breath. “So,” he said. “That is what this is about. The power-of-attorney.”
“Indeed, sir. The power-of-attorney.”
“I saw that Mr. Pierce did not like it last night when I showed it
to him. He said one or two rather angry things to me.”
“And what did you reply to him, sir?”
“That he was at liberty to feel piqued if he wished, but the fact remains that someone must have the power to look after your father’s business matters while he is unable to do so himself.”
“Very true.”
“Then why are you so angry with me about it?”
“I am not angry, sir. Angry? Why should I be angry? I am surprised and perturbed that you should do such a thing behind my back, but as to anger ... That argues a deeper feeling than is needed.”
Mr. Maldon walked to the window of the drawing-room and stood there for a moment or two, his back to her. The sunlight glinted on his fair hair, picked out the worn threads on his blue riding coat.
Amy thought, he does not powder his hair because he can’t afford to do so. His coat is worn because he is poor. These are the reasons that he is so quick to have my father sign away his rights to him. He can enrich himself in that way.
Yet somehow it seemed less likely than when Uncle Pierce had been explaining it to her.
“Sir,” she said uncertainly, “if these matters are capable of another explanation, perhaps you could give it to me.”
He didn’t speak for yet another moment. She had a dreadful feeling that he was going to walk out without another word. But at last he wheeled to face her. His steel-grey eyes were cold.
“Miss Tyrrell, in this country it is usual for a man to be considered innocent until he is proved guilty. It would be a kindness if you would extend that same custom to me in this matter. You ask me to explain, but I have the feeling that to do so is to defend myself against an accusation of a much stronger charge. What exactly is it that I am supposed to have done?”
The Fortune-Hunter Page 7
