by Holly West
“I don’t see any alternative,” I said. “Unless we intend to confess what really happened, we have to come up with a plausible story. This could work.”
“I don’t want Susanna blamed,” Sir Richard said. “And no one can ever know about James and Adam.” He didn’t say it, but I imagined he didn’t want his own concealment of the murder to come to light either. The thought angered me, but I pushed it out of my mind. I couldn’t let it distract me.
“I’ll do it,” he finally said. “You’ll stay here, and I’ll do it.”
Chapter Forty-One
After the household was asleep, Sir Richard and I carried James’s body out of the dungeon. It was a struggle laying it across his horse’s back, for the corpse was stiff and difficult to handle.
“Will you be able to do this yourself?” I asked Sir Richard.
He assured me that he could. He kissed me on the cheek and promised to return as soon as possible before galloping away.
I returned to the dungeon to wait for him. With no means of heating it, it was cold down there, and even fortified with blankets I wondered how long I could survive. Sleep wasn’t even a possibility.
My biggest worry was Wilson. Could he be trusted to keep our secret? Sir Richard thought he could, but I wasn’t so sure. He’d been quite keen to get rid of me, after all. But Sir Richard was convinced that Wilson’s loyalty had never been in question. He would never betray the Winser family and had only come after me because he considered me a threat.
I also worried about Susanna. Not only had she witnessed a man’s death today, she’d pulled the trigger herself. I longed to steal upstairs to comfort her, but couldn’t risk discovery. Sir Richard would be back soon, I told myself. She’d be all right until then.
Despite my certainty that I wouldn’t be able to sleep, I awoke to Sir Richard’s gentle prodding. “It’s done,” he said.
“Did you find Elijah?”
He nodded. “I’m sorry, Isabel. He’s dead.”
I exhaled. Poor Elijah. He’d been a good and loyal man. I might never have learned the truth about my brother’s death without his help and he’d died in service to me.
“I’ve left one of your horses tethered outside,” Sir Richard said. “Give me some time before you come to the main entrance.”
Though I could hardly contain myself, I waited fifteen more minutes before I crept up from the dungeon and rounded the house to the front door. There, I took a deep breath and began banging upon it.
“Good God, Lady Wilde,” the butler said when he saw me. “What in heaven’s name has happened?”
* * *
I stayed at Bingley House for a few days, mourning with the family as they prepared for the burials.
At first, I’d intended for Susanna and me to return to London immediately. After all, I’d falsely claimed that James and I had been lovers and it seemed disrespectful to Emily Winser to remain at the house. She’d lost a husband and the father of her children under what she believed to be humiliating circumstances. I’d always loathed Emily, it’s true, but I never would’ve hurt her in such a way if it weren’t necessary.
She learned of the betrayal and death behind the closed doors of Sir Richard’s study. He’d tried to break the news as gently as possible, but her anguished screams upon hearing it torment me still.
Nevertheless, Sir Richard insisted I remain at Bingley House, and though I was anxious about Sam’s fate, I agreed to do it. He arranged to bury Elijah in the family plot, alongside the servants who’d died in service to the family over the years. For this, I was grateful—Elijah had no relatives that I knew of other than a cousin in Lancashire.
Even so, I kept my distance from the family, rarely venturing from my room unless it was to spend time with Susanna. Lucinda brought my meals up to me on trays and, together, we daydreamed about seeing Margaret again.
“Oh, I do hope she comes back, my lady,” she said. “I’ve missed her so!”
For her part, Susanna seemed to have weathered the events of the past few days remarkably well. At first, she was quieter than usual, but quickly returned to her spirited self.
As it turned out, James Winser hadn’t kidnapped her. Convinced that Sam had murdered Tom Clarke, she waited until Charlotte was asleep that night and absconded to Sir Richard’s apartments in London, looking for refuge.
“But Uncle James was there,” she told me. “When I told him what the matter was, he and Wilson brought me to Bingley House. I’m sorry I thought Sam hurt Tom. I know the truth now.”
After a lavish church service to honor James, he was laid to rest. As the family huddled together, walking toward the house, Sir Richard pulled me aside and brought me to a grave marked by nothing but a simply carved stone cross.
“This is where Adam lies. I thought you’d want to know that we gave him a proper burial.”
But instead of gratitude, I only felt anger. After all those years of anguish, believing that my brother’s body had been thoughtlessly tossed into a plague pit, this seemed a cruel revelation.
Sir Richard saw the resentment in my eyes. “James was my son, Isabel. What else could I do? Punishing him would have done nothing to bring Adam back. I couldn’t see losing both of them to their foolish mistakes.”
I glanced over at James’s fresh grave and reminded myself that Sir Richard had buried his only son today. Perhaps, in some perverse way, justice had been served for all of us.
On the day I left, Emily Winser cornered me in my room as Lucinda helped me to pack my belongings.
“He didn’t love you,” she said, spitting out the words as though they’d left a foul taste on her tongue. “You were nothing but his whore.”
I gazed at her solemnly, allowing her this moment of sanctity. As the grieving widow, she’d earned it. “You’re right, Emily. He didn’t love me. He only ever loved the Winser family. It meant everything to him—he would’ve given his life for you.”
She cried then. All the anger and hurt feelings she’d kept pent up for so long came spewing forth. Lucinda hurried over and comforted her mistress. Soon after, Sir Richard asked his own carriage driver to transport Susanna and me back to London.
Thursday, 30 January
There was still the matter of Sam’s exoneration.
I hired a hackney to drive me to Benjamin Stowe’s warehouse on that very day. As expected, Mr. Dunn didn’t want to let me see him, but I insisted. “I assure you that Mr. Stowe will want to hear what I have to say.”
Finally, he acquiesced and directed me into Stowe’s office.
“Sir Richard Winser didn’t kill my brother and Tom Clarke—his son, James, did,” I said after Dunn left us alone.
“And he hired the man who broke into my house?” he asked.
“Yes. But you’ve nothing to worry about now. James Winser is dead.”
“And I suppose you had nothing to do with it?”
“The details of his death are available to the public if you wish to learn them. That’s not why I’m here. My man, Sam Turner, has been accused of Tom Clarke’s murder and I need your help to absolve him.”
“What do you have in mind?” he asked warily.
“I need you to testify that before James died, he planned to go to the authorities with evidence that Chester Plum killed Tom Clarke.”
“Chester Plum? The man he hired to kill me?”
“Yes.”
“Chester Plum is dead. I recently learned he was killed in Newgate.”
I gave Stowe a brief account of what had happened—that James Winser had hired Horace Applebee to kill Chester Plum in prison, before Plum could go to trial for the attempt he’d made on Stowe’s life, which had also been at James’s behest.
“Sir Richard Winser will confirm to anything you attest,” I assured him. “But you’r
e the Lord Mayor. Your word is worth its weight in gold, if you’ll pardon the expression. In return, I promise I’ll keep what I know about your activities with my brother quiet.”
“Are you threatening me, Lady Wilde?” he asked, smiling.
“On the contrary, Mr. Stowe. Consider this a business proposition.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Tuesday, 12 March
Several weeks after James’s death, I went to visit Sir Richard in his shop. He was there, like always, working among his apprentices and helping customers. I’ll admit I was nervous. I hadn’t seen him since he’d spoken up for Sam alongside Benjamin Stowe. I didn’t know if he’d want to see me. But upon my arrival, he smiled. I saw sadness in his eyes but not regret.
“Good afternoon, Isabel.”
“I have news for you,” I said.
“Then let us go speak privately in my office.”
When we were settled on chairs in the office, I said, “I’m so very sorry, Sir Richard.”
“For what, my dear?”
What was I sorry for? For investigating Adam’s death? For being, in some small way, responsible for his son’s death? “I’m sorry that you’ve been hurt by all of this.”
“If I’ve been hurt, it was my own doing.” There was silence between us until he said, “Do you know what it feels like to be utterly alone in the world?”
I’d never considered whether I was a lonely person. I had a small but content household, which now included Susanna. But then the lowest moments of my life unfolded in a flash—my father’s death, Adam’s, the loss of my child. I knew the answer to his question.
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
He turned his head slightly and appraised me with kind eyes. “Yes, my dear, I believe you do. Alone. It’s how I’ve felt since James died, you know. No one knows what really happened in that room. You’d think, after all that’s occurred, that I’d be done with secrets. But no one can ever know the truth about James’s death, even if it somehow feels like I’ve betrayed him.”
“I shall carry the knowledge to my own grave. You have my word on that.”
“Thank you.”
“You haven’t yet heard my news. I received a letter from Margaret yesterday.” I removed it from my pocket, unfolded it and read it aloud.
Dear Isabel,
I was very happy to receive your letter. It has been so many years since we’ve spoken, after all. I can only hope that you will forgive me for not writing to you sooner.
Most of all, I am grateful that Susanna is safe with you. I’d given up faith that I’d ever see her again. I am now filled with the hope that we will be reunited someday very soon.
I expect her arrival on your doorstep was quite a surprise. I regret her leaving me, but cannot help but wonder if her journey across the ocean was for the best. I can’t say that I am entirely ready to meet with my father and the rest of my family, but Susanna’s voyage has made it inevitable. Rest assured that despite the time and miles between us, I spoke of you and Lucian often.
I’ve booked passage on the Columbia to arrive in London in mid-May. I’ll be traveling alone, as my husband has recently died. Please give Susanna my love and tell her I shall see her soon.
Margaret
Sir Richard raised his hand to his heart. “My daughter is coming home?”
“Yes, Sir Richard. And very soon.”
“She doesn’t know James is dead.”
“No. It will come as a shock, I’m sure.”
He rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. “She knew he killed Adam. I’m certain it’s the reason why she never came home.”
I’d thought I was finished being surprised by Sir Richard’s admissions, but this one felt like a punch in the gut.
“You knew she’d fled to America?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t know where she ended up. But I knew why she left in the first place and why she’d never returned.” He fixed his gaze upon me. “Secrets, Isabel. They are poisonous and vile. And yet sometimes, we’ve no choice but to keep them.”
I thought about my own life, the terrible things that I’d done and had been done to me. And Margaret—she’d indicated that her husband, Mr. Cabot, had died. Had she learned what he’d done to Susanna? Had his death been from natural causes, or was she keeping a secret of her own?
I nodded at Sir Richard. I understood.
Tuesday, 7 May
The mid-May sun shone bright in the sky as we stood on the quay, waiting for the passengers to disembark the Columbia. It had been cloudy when we left the house, and I was thankful for the bonnet I’d taken up as a second thought, for I didn’t want to freckle.
Sir Richard stood beside me, along with Susanna, Charlotte, Lucian and Sam. Susanna, outfitted in a pretty new dress, danced around in excitement, unable to contain herself. It had been many months since she’d seen her mother, and while I knew she’d been happy living with me, I was a poor substitute for a parent, no matter how much I loved her.
Sir Richard clenched his jaw, his joy at the prospect of a reunion with his daughter tempered by anxiety. I reached over and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, confident that Margaret would greet him with open arms.
The gangplank had been lowered some time ago, but no passengers had yet disembarked. My own stomach fluttered with anticipation. I could scarcely believe that I’d see my childhood friend in just a few minutes. Oh! What was the delay? Why did these things always take so blasted long?
Finally, the first passengers began to meander down the gangplank. They took careful steps, for the passage was steep and tripping was a hazard. I tried to picture what Margaret might now look like, but all my mind’s eye could see was the girl she’d been. I shouldn’t have worried. When she stepped onto the gangplank she surveyed the waiting crowd nervously, and I instantly knew it was her.
Susanna stood on her tiptoes, pointed and waved. “It’s her!” she cried. “Over here, Mama! Over here!”
Margaret turned her head and glimpsed us, a broad smile coming to her face. She waved and picked up her step, clutching the railing so that she wouldn’t stumble.
In that moment, we were none of us alone.
* * * * *
Author’s Note
When I first came up with the idea for Mistress of Lies, I wanted to pay homage to a trade that I have great respect for: goldsmithing (and metalsmithing in general). I spent many years learning and practicing the very same techniques used by Adam Barber and his colleagues, and while today’s goldsmiths are aided by the use of gas torches and a few other conveniences, I can fabricate a ring in very much the same way that seventeenth-century goldsmiths did. I’m fascinated by how little the craft has changed in the past three hundred-some years, and furthermore, by how the intricacies of the modern banking system are derived directly from the systems of credit and clearing established by seventeenth-century goldsmiths—an intriguing and complicated history to be sure.
As the novel took shape, however, I realized that it was about so much more. The Great Plague of London (1665–66) killed nearly a fifth of the city’s population. While the well-off fled to the countryside, the poor were left to die in huge numbers, and as many as eight thousand in a single month.
How does one accurately convey such devastation? We have the benefit of sound public health policies and modern medicine to protect us now—but imagine your neighbor’s family being struck by a sudden and misunderstood illness and they all perish. Then your neighbor on the other side, then your neighbor down the street, and finally, your own family. You’re prohibited from leaving your home, which doesn’t matter anyway because the shops are all shut and the streets are empty except for the callous men hauling already full death carts, shouting for you to bring out your dead.
Mistress of Lies is wholly a wo
rk of fiction, but now it’s more than just a tribute to the craft I love so much. It’s also a reflection of a time of great chaos and great opportunity, and the inevitable extremes of evil and heroism that arise from such times. Shining through all of this is a reminder that life, and those we love, are precious.
Lady Isabel Wilde’s story begins with
Mistress of Fortune, available now!
Mistress of Fortune
London, 1678
Isabel, Lady Wilde, a mistress to King Charles II, has a secret: she makes her living disguised as Mistress Ruby, a fortune-teller who caters to London’s elite. It’s a dangerous life among the charlatans, rogues and swindlers who lurk in the city’s dark corners, but to Isabel, the risk is worth the reward.
Until magistrate Sir Edmund Godfrey seeks Mistress Ruby’s counsel and reveals his unwitting involvement in a plot to kill the king. When Isabel’s diary containing dangerous details of his confession is stolen, she knows she must find it before anyone connects her to Mistress Ruby. Especially after Sir Edmund’s corpse is discovered a few days later...
Isabel is sure that whoever stole her diary is Sir Edmund’s killer—and could be part of a conspiracy that leads all the way to the throne. But as she delves deeper into the mystery, not even the king himself may be able to save her.
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About the Author
Don't let the smile fool you; Holly West has a dark side.
Originally from a small town in Northern California, Holly moved to the big city to attend Loyola Marymount University, where she earned a Bachelor of Arts in Screenwriting. After shoving a few unproduced scripts in the proverbial desk drawer, she succumbed to her baser instincts and turned to writing crime fiction.
