Grenville said nothing to us as I escorted Marianne out of the house and handed her into the carriage. Grenville got in beside Marianne, leaving the empty backward-facing seat for me. In any other circumstance, this would be a discourtesy, but I'd grown used to riding backward in Grenville's coaches. Grenville became even more violently ill if he did not face forward.
"Are you certain you will be well?" I asked him.
"Not at all," he said. "But I can hold out long enough to tell you my tale. Besides, my backside is a bit sore from all the hours in the saddle."
He spoke glibly, but as soon as the carriage jerked forward, Grenville looked as though he regretted giving up the steadiness of a horse. He opened the window and breathed deeply.
"Tell me what you discovered," I said. "It will take your mind from things."
Grenville dabbed his pale lips with a handkerchief. "I discovered Denis's man," he said. "He'd spoken to the people Terrance Quinn told you he'd spoken to, but found nothing new. However, when Denis's man broadened his inquiries a bit, he found a woman who'd looked after Helena when she first arrived in Cambridge. She was the person who persuaded Helena to move on to Lincolnshire and found her a place there."
I frowned at the heaths and farmland of inland Norfolk moving by us. "I am confused. I thought Miss Quinn and her husband settled in Cambridge and then moved north. That is what Terrance reported Braxton's neighbors as saying."
"Yes, but I have not told you the crux of the matter. Miss Quinn is not married. She is living as a lady's companion to an elderly woman by name of Edgerton, in Lincolnshire."
"A lady's companion?" I stared at him. "Did she jilt Braxton, then? All those years ago?"
"Ah, now I come to the crux of the crux." Grenville's smile became triumphant. "There is no such person as Edward Braxton, who came to woo Miss Helena Quinn. The man does not exist."
Chapter Twenty-Three
After the violence of the day before and with the continuing pain in my body, I was in no mood for riddles.
"Of course he exists," I said. "Mrs. Landon and Lady Southwick met him. Robert Buckley met him, as did Miss Quinn's mother and father. Please do not tell me that people in three parishes, including Lady Southwick, conspired to invent him."
"No, indeed. There was a man who came from Cambridge to Norfolk and seduced away Miss Helena Quinn. He told everyone his name was Edward Braxton, but it was not. There is a true Edward Braxton, neighbors of the people Terrance Quinn spoke to, but upon further investigation, this Mr. Braxton is seventy, and he and his wife, a woman of his same age, went to live near their daughter and grandchildren in York some years ago. He was certainly not the young and handsome gentleman who swept into rural Norfolk to woo a naive vicar's daughter."
"Then who on earth was Helena's Mr. Braxton?"
"No one seems to know," Grenville said. "A ghost."
"A smooth-tongued devil, that's who," Marianne broke in. "A confidence trickster. Do not look so amazed, gentlemen; I have seen this sort of thing time and again. A man takes whatever name he pleases, invents whatever background he pleases, and seduces a woman-usually for her money-and then disappears, leaving her ruined, humiliated, and destitute. No doubt the true Edward Braxton is a respectable solicitor or banker's clerk, so that if people do inquire, they'll find a man of impeccable reputation behind the name. Better still if he's recently moved elsewhere, so no one can say he hasn't traveled to Norfolk for a holiday. If inquiries turn up that the man of the same name is of venerable years, those asking will assume he is the father or grandfather of said trickster, which will lend still more credence to his story. A respectable name, passed down through generations, is always esteemed."
Grenville listened with interest. "But why would a confidence trickster travel to a remote corner of Norfolk and entice away young Miss Quinn? What could he hope to gain? Miss Quinn did not come from a wealthy family."
Marianne shrugged. "These men will take anything they can find. A man such as the false Mr. Braxton might persuade a woman to marry him, perhaps with a sham ceremony and sham special license, only to take the family silver and leave the poor lady high and dry. Or he might have come to convince local men to invest money in some scheme-a new invention that's sure to make them all rich, or some such. In that case, the respectable vicar's daughter putting in a good word for him does not hurt."
I did not hear half of what she said, because one word had caught my attention. "Silver," I said.
Grenville's brows rose. "You mean the candlesticks from the church? He stole them? Or persuaded Miss Quinn to?"
"You can be certain that he persuaded the girl to nick them for him," Marianne said. "A man like that never gets caught with his hand in the pot. He likely convinced her that they needed the money the silver would fetch to make their escape."
"But she'd be stealing from her own father's church," Grenville said.
Marianne gave him a pitying look. "Vicars' daughters are not necessarily the pious beings you imagine. They mostly do not give a toss about Sunday services, and she might have reasoned that a country church did not need extravagant candlesticks. Mr. Braxton likely convinced her, if she worried about hurting dear papa, that Protestant modesty would be assisted by the loss of glittering silver on the altar. These gentlemen think of everything, believe me."
Grenville eyed her in curiosity, his motion sickness momentarily forgotten. "Have you had wide experience of this?"
"I have watched others have wide experience of it," Marianne said. "You'd think girls in a theatre company would have more wisdom, but no. They cling to the belief that a fine gentleman will sweep them off to riches and comfort."
As Grenville had done with Marianne. I deliberately did not look at him. "Innocent country girls would be even more susceptible," I said.
"Precisely," Marianne said.
"How do we find this man?" I asked. "I'd like a word with him."
Marianne shook her head. "You do not. They take what they came for, and they vanish, turning up elsewhere with a new name to fleece a new flock of sheep. The best ones are never found."
"Well, this Edward Braxton could not have been terribly good at being a trickster," I said. "He told Mrs. Landon and Lady Southwick slightly different versions of his story, which was why Mrs. Landon swore he was a solicitor, and Lady Southwick swore he was a banker's clerk. He left the silver plate in my chimney, and Miss Quinn never married him."
"Yes," Grenville said. "Odd that. And so, a visit to Miss Quinn is in order." He took out his handkerchief again and patted his damp forehead. "I beg your pardons, my friends, but I am afraid I must.. "
Both Marianne and I knew what he needed. She vacated the seat, and the two of us helped him pull it out into the special bed he'd had made. Grenville collapsed onto it and closed his eyes. Marianne sat down next to me and pulled out a newspaper, not seeming to think a thing of it. I leaned my head against the wall and let my fatigue overcome me.
*********
We traveled the rest of that day, put up in a coaching inn for the night, and resumed the journey the next day. Grenville's money ensured that we had a private parlor and bedrooms, and Marianne assumed the role of Grenville's respectable wife so that the innkeeper did not questioned her presence.
She played the part astonishingly well, never overdoing it or behaving awkwardly. Grenville raised his brows at me once or twice but did not remark upon it. Theatre companies had done poorly to keep Marianne buried in the chorus.
By noon on the second day, we rolled into Market Sutton, a fairly large town a few miles from the coast, and found another inn. Marianne was surprisingly understanding about staying behind, while Grenville and I made our way to the house of Mrs. Edgerton.
Mrs. Edgerton proved to be a lady of large girth, who had to be pushed about in a Bath chair. She met us alone in her parlor, bade us to sit, and then looked us over, seeming in no hurry to summon Miss Quinn. Grenville explained that he'd written ahead, and Mrs. Edgerton acknowledged this, but I
had to assure the lady that I was a friend of Miss Quinn's family.
"She does not wish to return to her family," Mrs. Edgerton said. "And if she does not wish it, she will not go. I have charge of her now."
"Then she will not go," Grenville said smoothly. "We wish only to speak to her. Her family is worried about her well-being."
"You can not accept my word that she is well?"
"Please," I said, sitting forward. "They would want to hear that I actually saw her. I promise you, if it turns out that Miss Quinn does not want me to tell her family where she is, I will not."
Mrs. Edgerton ran a hard gaze up and down me and let it linger on my walking stick. The fact that I was lame seemed to reassure her for some reason. She summoned her maid who was instructed to fetch Miss Quinn, and we all waited.
When Helena entered the room, I was struck by how little she'd changed. I'd left Norfolk at age twenty, when Helena had been twelve. She'd been tall for her age, and robust-not an ethereal beauty but a sturdy and pretty girl.
She was twenty-two when she'd disappeared from home, and now she was in her thirties. Though still robust and still pretty, Helena wore a resigned look. This was her lot in life, the look said, her dreams of marriage and a family of her own now dust.
I rose, as did Grenville. When Helena saw me, she halted, the color draining from her face. I stepped forward, thinking her faint, but she waved me off.
"I beg your pardon," she said. "I did not mean to… It is just that you look so like your father."
I supposed it inevitable. "My father passed away a few years after you left."
"My condolences," she said, quickly and politely. She did not mean them.
I introduced Grenville and told Helena the briefest bit of my changed circumstances since she'd last seen me.
"Your cousin Terrance is worried about you," I finished. "He returned from Waterloo to find you gone. He tried hunting for you in Cambridge."
Miss Quinn flushed. "Yes, well, I was long gone by then. I came to stay with Mrs. Edgerton, who has been so kind to me."
Kind Mrs. Edgerton intended to sit there, I saw, her cane planted on the carpet, keeping me from asking the questions I needed to ask. Miss Quinn also understood this, because she turned to Mrs. Edgerton. "May Captain Lacey take a turn with me in the garden? I wish to ask him about my family."
Mrs. Edgerton did not like the idea, but she gave a conceding nod. She lifted her cane and pointed the end of it at Grenville. " You will remain."
Grenville bowed with his practiced aplomb. "As you wish, my lady."
"I do wish it," Mrs. Edgerton said. "That is why I said so."
"She really is quite generous," Miss Quinn told me as we walked through the small garden. Mrs. Edgerton's house was square and brick, large but not ostentatious. Everything about it shouted extreme respectability, money spent wisely, a vivid contrast to Lady Southwick's monstrosity.
"She must be very generous," I said. "To take you in-alone, away from your family, running from… from Mr. Braxton?"
Helena's flush deepened. "As you no doubt have discovered, given that you have found me, I was once a great fool."
"You were young," I said. "And I have it from a good source that gentlemen like Braxton can be very persuasive."
"I was twenty-two." Helena spoke with a severity directed at her younger self. "Old enough to be wiser than I was. I was on the shelf but still wearing debutante's clothing. Still hoping."
"As is natural."
"You are kind, but I know you also think me a fool. Miss Austen's novels were a great favorite of mine, and I should have paid better attention to the lessons in them. The dashing gentleman usually turns out to be the scoundrel, while the friend one has known all one's life proves to be steadfast and true." She sighed. "Poor Terrance."
"He is still concerned about you," I said.
"And I am ashamed of what I did to him. But I am pleased he returned from the fighting, safe and sound."
I stopped. We'd reached a fountain in the middle of the garden, the fountain not running. Mrs. Edgerton did not strike me as a woman who would condone wasting water on something as frivolous as a fountain on a brisk September day.
"Terrance returned safe, but not sound," I said. "He lost an arm, Helena, and his spirits are low. I quite understand-when I learned that the surgeon would not have to cut off my leg, I wept for joy. Terrance did not have that happy news."
Her face had gone ashen. "Lost his arm? Dear Lord."
"There is more to your fear of returning home than shame at your foolishness," I said, my voice taking an edge. "Your family would have forgiven you if you'd turned back that night, regardless of whether Mr. Braxton had touched you. Terrance would have forgiven you. Your family is good at heart. Things would have been difficult for you, but not impossible. Yet, you carried on with your plan to ran away. Why?"
Helena pressed her hands together and shook her head. She did not want to tell me.
"I found the church plate," I said. "Did Mr. Braxton coerce you to steal it for him?"
She looked up at me in anguish. "Robert did it. Little Robert Buckley, the publican's son. He did it, because I asked him to. Gabriel, I am so ashamed."
Robert, who'd told me he'd been potty about Helena Quinn. "He stole the silver and brought it to you. Then what happened? It was stuffed in the chimney of my house, so Mr. Braxton obviously did not abscond with it."
Helena bowed her head, and her voice was almost inaudible. "I have taught myself not to think on it. But it happened… such an awful thing happened."
I realized the last piece of it, an idea that had been swimming in my mind, just out of reach. "Edward Braxton is dead," I said. "Or at least the man calling himself Edward Braxton. Was it an accident?"
Helena looked up at me again, her hazel eyes clear and intelligent. "It might have been. Robert killed him. He struck Mr. Braxton with one of the candlesticks, and Mr. Braxton fell stone dead. Poor Robert killed him. For me."
Chapter Twenty-Four
Her words fell into silence, the violence she spoke of incongruous in this tidy garden. Clouds were filling the sky, the afternoon turning cold.
When I spoke, I did so slowly, my thoughts arranging themselves as they emerged. "Lady Southwick suggested to Mr. Braxton that you met him in the copse near my father's house, and from there you would run away together. That evening, you went to the Lacey house. My father was ill in his bed, and he'd not have known that you'd crept into my mother's sitting room, always shut, and changed from your gown into traveling clothes." I paused. "Why leave the dress there?"
Helena shook her head. "I am not certain. I remember laying my dress across the chaise. The gown was so pristine and white-a symbol of the girlhood I was leaving behind. I was to be married, to have my own husband and my own house, and I did not need such a dress anymore."
"Robert helped get you into and out of my house," I continued. "He'd brought the church silver to the meeting place. What happened there? Did Braxton show his true colors?"
Helena shuddered. "Dear heavens, yes. He laughed at us, told us we were good trained dogs to do what he said. He was going to take the silver and go, and let it be a lesson to us. I could not believe my ears. I'd fallen in love with him… No, truth to tell, I was infatuated and flattered by him. No one else had said the things to me that he did. To realize that I'd fallen for his pack of lies, that he'd used me to get the silver from my own father's church, that he thought of me as nothing more than a stupid, childish, frump of a girl
…" Her eyes filled with tears. "It hurt. It hurt so much."
Braxton had probably used those very words- stupid, childish, frump of a girl. I wished Braxton weren't dead, so I could get my hands on his throat and teach him some manners. I imagined Robert Buckley growing enraged, as I was doing now, except with the fury of a boy watching his angel being beaten down. It must have seemed right to raise the heavy candlestick and go at Braxton. I could imagine the pattern of the carved silver against
my hand, sense the candlestick's satisfying weight, could feel the triumph of swinging the thing and smacking Braxton's gloating face.
I drew a breath, trying to banish the picture and my angry glee.
"Foolish of him to linger to boast of his misdeeds," I said. "That was the end of him."
She looked surprised at my matter-of-fact statement. "Robert-he grew so angry. I was crying. Robert snatched up a candlestick and struck…" She shivered. "I thought he'd only stunned Mr. Braxton, that we could run to the constable's house and tell him that we'd caught Mr. Braxton running off with the silver. We would look like wise creatures to have found him out, instead of fools duped by him."
"But he was dead."
"He lay so still. I felt for his heartbeat, but he had none, and no breath. Robert could not believe what he'd done. But he never lost his head, as young as he was. He went through Braxton's pockets, found all his money-fifty pounds it turned out to be-and gave it to me. He told me to go, said he'd take care of the rest. He would put it about that I eloped with Mr. Braxton, and that would be that. I cried, but I went."
Fifty pounds. Lady Southwick had said she'd given Braxton "a bit of money" to help the pair elope. Braxton had duped and flattered her as much as he had Helena.
"Why did you run?" I asked. "Why not go to a magistrate and explain the accident? Braxton was trying to rob the church, after all."
"We were young, and we were so frightened. We could not be sure, could we, that we wouldn't simply be dragged away for the murder and the robbery-Robert had done the actual theft, not Mr. Braxton. And I was a coward. I did not want to face the world and confess what Braxton had done to me."
True that their fate would depend on the kindness of the magistrate. If the magistrate had been an unreasonable and suspicious man, Robert could have been tried for murder and stealing from the church, perhaps Helena as well, as his accomplice. A conviction, even for a child and a young woman, would be hanging or transportation.
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