by Anne Herries
After re-reading three of them, Sarah retied the bundle and slipped them into the drawer of her desk. She would speak to John when he came home, tell him about the letters and Ruth’s revelations. She had sensed from the very beginning that Sir Andrew’s friendly manner was hiding his true feelings when he had called earlier that week. His tales about the house being haunted by a child’s ghost had obviously been meant to disturb Sarah, to make her frightened and unhappy, as his daughter had been.
Did he truly believe that John had driven his wife to take her own life? Sarah thought that she had discovered the source of the gossip and the slanderous letters that had been sent to her. Sir Andrew had obviously wanted to drive a wedge between her and John, to cause as much pain and unhappiness as he could—while pretending to be John’s friend.
Was he also the hidden assassin who had shot at Sarah and John from the woods? It seemed likely, and yet she had a feeling that the puzzle was not yet solved. But why would someone else want to kill John?
She frowned over it as she left the bedchamber. It was too nice a day to spend indoors brooding over those letters. She would ask for her mare to be saddled and go for a good gallop across the moors.
‘You were caught snooping about the grounds,’ John said as he looked at the other man. He was a few years younger, a tall, attractive man with dark eyes and hair, and the bearing of a soldier. ‘What were you doing on my estate—and why? If you tell me the truth, it will be better for you than if you lie, sir. The letters and the whispers—and the shot someone took at my wife, and again at me when we were in Scotland. I am determined to get to the bottom of this, because it has gone on long enough. I would know your name, sir, and what part you have played in this business.’ John spoke quietly, but from the look on his face, it was clear that he was in no mood for being denied.
The other man gave him a hard look, his dark eyes proud and angry. ‘My name is George Rathbone, and I am a sergeant in his Majesty’s army. I know nothing of any letters. I’ve heard the scandal and I know Andrea was desperately unhappy. I begged her to leave you and bring the child. I would have taken them away and cared for them, even though I couldn’t give her a big house and fine clothes the way you did, but I loved her and I would have made her happy.’
‘You were Andrea’s lover?’ John stared at him, his eyes narrowing. ‘She told me that she was forced…’
‘I never forced her,’ George Rathbone cried, his dark eyes flashing angrily. ‘That is a damned lie! She came to me willingly. I loved her and she loved me. I wanted to marry her, but when I asked for her, her father told me that he would never allow it. He sent word to my father that if I continued to see her he would turn my family out of their home. We were his tenants and that meant our ruin; my father took a horsewhip to me in a rage for our family has farmed the land for three generations. He told me that if I saw her again he would kill me. I met Andrea again the next day. I told her that I was going away and would come back for her when I had enough money to marry her—and I did. I’ve been in the army and I’ve earned my share of prize money. I could have given her a home and food to eat, though not the luxuries she was used to.’
‘You say you saw her after we were married—when exactly?’
‘It was after the child was born,’ George said and his face creased with grief. ‘I was shocked when I saw her, for she had changed so much—seemed almost wild, strange, as if her mind wandered. She knew me and I think she still loved me, but she was frightened. I begged her to come away with me, promised that I would take care of her…I believed that she still loved me, that she would come to me in the end. And then I heard that she had drowned herself in the river. I was devastated when they wouldn’t let her be buried in church ground. I watched her being buried and I cursed you. I hated you for taking her from me and I wanted to punish you.’ He paused, his eyes narrowing as he looked at John. ‘Yes, I fired at you when you were in Scotland—and I fired into the air when I saw the girl you were to marry out riding, but I did not try to kill either you or her. Had I done so, you would be dead. I wanted to frighten you, to punish you—and sometimes I thought of taking your life or that of the woman you loved, but I could never have done it. I am no murderer—but I believed that you were.’
John’s eyes narrowed with anger. ‘You are grievously at fault, sir. Sarah might have died if she had fallen from her horse. It was only good fortunate that prevented her from being injured.’
‘Yes, I know,’ George Rathbone said and a look of shame came into his eyes. ‘That was wrong and I have since regretted it. I fired on impulse because I was angry when I heard that you were to marry again. It was you I hated, not her. Why should you be happy when I have lost everything I loved?’
‘I am sorry that Andrea died, and that you were forced to leave her by your father and hers,’ John said, looking thoughtful. All this was much as Charles had predicted, but it was not the end of the story. He suspected much more, much darker mischief than this. ‘I ought never to have married her, but she came to me and told me that she had been forced and was with child. She did not dare to tell her father, and I wanted to protect her, to help her. After we married, she seemed to withdraw from me. Perhaps a part of that was my fault. I am not blameless. I never loved Andrea—my heart was given elsewhere. At the time I thought my case was hopeless and that being married to a woman I did not love would not matter—but perhaps I shut Andrea out. I cannot say for sure. If I made her unhappy, I am sorry for it, and I suffered terrible guilt for months after she died. But I think the darkness was in her own mind…I think she lied to me about being forced, perhaps because she was afraid that I would not have married her if I had known the truth. Yet she was in such distress that I believe I could not have done otherwise, whatever her story.’
‘She was terrified of her father’s anger.’ George’s face was anguished. ‘She told me once that he treated her as if she were an angel, more fragile and precious than the Sèvres porcelain he treasures…It may be that she made up the story for his benefit, because he might have harmed her had he known that she came to me willingly.’
‘Yes, I have thought that she was afraid of something…but her own father…’ John met his eyes uncertainly. ‘I have blamed myself for her unhappiness…but something happened recently that makes me wonder if he told Andrea things to distress her as a punishment for what she had done. He may even have guessed that she lied because she had lain with you of her own free will.’
George nodded, his dark eyes thoughtful as he looked at John. ‘I’ve hated you,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I wanted to kill you, but even though I’ve had the chance I didn’t take it…perhaps because I suspected there was more. The man I want to kill is the man who destroyed her.’
‘Yes, I believe he did destroy her,’ John said. ‘I don’t know for certain that it was Sir Andrew—but I have suspected it for a while. I think he forced her to come to me and beg for my help. And then I think he continued to punish her for disappointing him. Someone had told her a wicked story about a child being left to die in the house, locked up and deserted by its mother so that it died of starvation. I know the story haunted Andrea, and that in her black moods she believed she could hear the child crying out for its mother. Recently, Sir Andrew told my wife the same story…’
‘Then it was he! He deliberately set out to punish her…to ruin the happiness she might have found with you…it may have been he who murdered her, for I have never believed that she killed herself.’
‘Yes,’ John agreed, a grim set to his mouth. ‘I have been thinking on the same lines for a while now.’ He raised his head to meet the other’s angry gaze. ‘If I let you go—if I agree to forget the shot you fired at Sarah—what will you do?’
‘Watch him,’ George said. ‘Wait my chance and make him confess if I have to thrash it out of him.’
‘Then I am afraid I shall have to keep you confined for a few days,’ John said and nodded at his men, who had been standing at a discreet distance.
‘You will be made as comfortable as possible, Sergeant Rathbone, and when this business is finally finished you shall have your freedom. However, for the moment I cannot let you go. I must have this done properly—an unexplained death might reflect badly on both me and my wife. I want this out in the open and done with.’
George looked at the four burly men waiting to grab him if he tried to escape. ‘I haven’t much choice, sir. But I shall warn you to be careful. If he has done all we think he has, he wouldn’t hesitate to take your life if it came to a case of him or you.’
‘It is a pity we did not meet face to face much sooner, Sergeant Rathbone. We might have thrashed this out as we have today.’
‘I was too bitter, sir,’ George said. ‘It was foolish of me, no doubt—but I believed that Andrea was beginning to trust me. I thought that she might run away with me—and when she died…I hated you.’
John inclined his head. ‘I do not blame you for hating me. In your shoes I would have felt the same. We shall talk again when this is over, Sergeant Rathbone.’
John nodded to his men, who took hold of George by his arms and led him from the room. His hands were bound behind his back and he went easily, not trying to resist.
‘You were lenient,’ Daniel observed as the door closed and they were left alone together. ‘I am not sure that I should have been as forgiving.’
‘He had a right to be bitter,’ John said. ‘If someone hurt Sarah, I should have felt much the same, though I hope I would not have taken to lurking in the woods and firing at people.’
‘Do you think he was right—is it Sir Andrew?’
‘I can only guess at much of it,’ John said, ‘but I have suspected him of writing the letters almost from the beginning, though I tried to tell myself I was wrong. He may have paid someone to leave Andrea’s things in my room—one of the maids, perhaps. I thought he might be trying to punish me for making Andrea unhappy, and I believed that if I gave him enough time his grief would ease and it would all fade away. But when he came to see Sarah, told her the stories that had frightened Andrea, made her terrified to be alone in the dark, then I began to wonder. Why did he tell his own daughter that story? I could understand why he told Sarah, because he might want to punish us for being happy—but he must have told Andrea first. Why?’
‘Because he wanted to hurt her?’
John nodded. ‘When I first told him that I was to marry Andrea, he seemed to accept it. I know she had confessed to him that she was having a child, and that the child was not mine…’ John shook his head. ‘I have hardly dared to think it, Daniel—but I think he may have killed Andrea in a fit of temper.’
‘But why would he murder his own daughter?’
‘I think it may not have been his intention. He was angry with her for letting him down. He cherished her as a delicate flower,’ John said. ‘She was his angel, his perfect flower—and then she took a lover, a man that he would think not fit to kiss her feet. Can you imagine his anger, his hatred of the man that had dared to touch his little girl? If he thought that she might shame him by leaving her husband and running off with her lover…’
‘They quarrelled. Perhaps she stood up to him, told him that she was no longer prepared to do his bidding…that she meant to leave you…’
‘Yes, I think that may have been what happened. She had seen the man she loved again and she wanted to be with him. Her father saw her with him, and later he found her alone wandering near the river—and in his anger he killed her.’ A look of anguish came to John’s face. ‘If only she had come to me, told me the truth, I would have helped them. And yet I think she may have made an attempt at reconciliation, but in my ignorance I rejected her. After that she may have decided that she would go with her lover. If I had guessed the truth, she might still be alive. I blame myself for not asking her why she was so unhappy…’
‘You are not responsible for any of this,’ Daniel said, looking grim. ‘If what you believe is true, there is only one person to blame for what happened to Andrea.’
‘And he must be punished,’ John agreed. ‘At first I thought his own grief and guilt sufficient, but that was before he came to the house and said those things to Sarah. She laughed at him, Daniel. She didn’t like the story of the child being left to die, no woman would—but she didn’t believe in his ghost. I am afraid that if he cannot frighten her, he may try to harm her in some other way.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘I am going home to see Sarah,’ John said. ‘I want to warn her that she must never be alone with him. I think he has gone beyond recall, Daniel. His obsession has made him a dangerous man. And then I shall go to see Sir Andrew. This has to be sorted out once and for all.’
‘Then I shall come with you,’ Daniel said. ‘You need a witness and you need a friend for your own protection.’
‘Thank you,’ John said. ‘I thought you would want to hear me question Rathbone—that is why I waited until you came. However, I have hardly seen Sarah since we visited you yesterday, and she will be thinking that I have deserted her. We shall have nuncheon together and then we’ll ride over to see Sir Andrew…’
George Rathbone allowed the men to lock him up in the barn, where he had been kept since his capture. He made no show of resistance, for he knew that his best chance of escaping was to wait until they had left him alone. His hands had been carelessly tied behind him. Twenty minutes or so alone would be sufficient to free them, and then he would work out a way to evade his captors. He already knew exactly what he was going to do after that.
John Elworthy meant well by locking him up, but George knew now who had killed his love and he was going to make sure the devil was punished as he deserved.
On entering the house, John went straight up to Sarah’s rooms. As he walked in he could distinguish the strong smell of Andrea’s perfume, and, as he looked at the dressing table, he saw that the top drawer was slightly open. The smell of perfume was coming from there. Pulling it open, he saw the letters and recognised the hand. He ripped the ribbon off and began to read a few lines of the first two or three, realising at once what they were and why they had been placed there for Sarah to find and read.
As the door opened, he turned on the maid who entered in a fury. ‘Where is my wife?’
‘She went out riding sometime ago, sir. Is something wrong?’ Ellie looked at him anxiously.
‘These letters—did you put them here?’ John gestured to the open drawer.
‘No, sir. Is something the matter?’
‘I pray not,’ John said, his expression like thunder. ‘I shall have something to say to whoever put these here when I return.’
Running back down the stairs to where Daniel waited, talking to one of the footmen, John called to him.
‘Sarah has gone riding,’ he said. ‘I am not sure, but I think she may have gone to visit Sir Andrew…’
‘In that case there is no time to lose…’
Sarah had ridden further than she intended and now her horse was lamed. She dismounted and looked at the animal ruefully.
‘I think the poor thing has a stone in its hoof, Joshua,’ she said to her groom. ‘We shall have to walk her home…’ She looked about her and saw a house through the trees. ‘Do you think it would be best to go there? Do you know who lives there?’
‘No, Mrs Elworthy. I am as new to the district as you. I haven’t got my bearings yet.’
‘No, of course you haven’t,’ she said. ‘But I think it would be cruel to walk my poor mare all the way home. If my neighbour is kind, he might allow me to leave her there and perhaps lend me another to get me home.’
‘You could ride my horse, ma’am,’ the groom said. ‘I could go up to the house and ask where the nearest blacksmith is if you like.’
‘We shall both go,’ Sarah said. ‘If I am not offered the loan of a horse, I may take your offer and let you lead the mare to a blacksmith while I ride home—but we may be lucky.’
The groom nodded.
‘I dare say they will lend you a horse, ma’am. It may be an old nag, but it looks a decent place—a gentleman’s house.’
‘Yes, it does,’ Sarah agreed. ‘I am not sure who our nearest neighbours are yet. Elizabeth is about ten miles in that direction…’ She pointed to her right. ‘It is a pity I did not ride that way, for I should have been sure of a welcome there, but I wanted to explore a little…’
She led her horse as far as the end of the drive, then gave the reins to Joshua, leaving him to hold both horses while she went up to the house to inquire if the owner was at home. She knocked at the door, which was opened after a few minutes’ delay by an elderly man in a rusty black coat and breeches. He squinted at her, holding a hand to his ear.
‘You’ll have to speak up, ma’am, I’m a bit hard of hearing these days.’
‘Is your master or mistress in please?’ Sarah asked. ‘My horse has gone lame and I wondered if I could leave her here and borrow another to ride home.’
‘What was that…something about borrowing a horse?’ The old man asked. ‘Can’t quite hear you, ma’am.’
‘I said my horse is lame…’ Sarah began, but just then a man came into the hall. Seeing her at the door, he looked surprised and then smiled, coming forward to greet her.
‘Sarah, my dear lady, how nice of you to come and visit me. Please come in. You may go, Hoskins. I shall deal with Mrs Elworthy.’ He smiled at Sarah as the elderly man walked off. ‘It is such a shame, don’t you think. Hoskins has been so loyal that I don’t like to turn him off, but he is as deaf as a post.’
‘Sir Andrew,’ Sarah said, stepping inside the hallway. It was a pleasant house, light and airy and built no more than fifty years earlier. ‘I am sorry to call on you so unexpectedly, but I have been out riding and my poor mare has gone lame. I think she has a stone in her hoof. I came to ask if I could leave her here and borrow another mount to ride home.’
