I said nothing for a long moment. Father remained silent, and the only sounds were the ticking of the mantel clock and the rustling of the fire.
"The princess herself retained you to recover it?" I ventured finally, afraid of his answer.
"Through the prime minister," he said calmly. It was even worse than I had feared.
"And now you will have to go to them and admit you have failed," I said wretchedly.
"The letters patent," Father began. The letters patent, drawn up to bestow Brisbane's viscountcy, a viscountcy that would not be his until the letters had been published.
"Useless," Brisbane cut in, his voice clipped.
I looked from one to the other. "The letters patent? For your title? What do you mean they are useless?"
Brisbane looked into his whiskey glass, studying the amber depths. "The letters were drafted by Lord Salisbury. He approached me about recovering the jewel for Her Royal Highness after some success I had on behalf of the Prince of Wales in the autumn. The letters were to be held until the diamond was recovered. If I fail, he will burn them."
Puzzled, I turned to Father. "But you have already been addressing him by the title of viscount."
Father shrugged. "A ruse to sweeten the honeypot for Charlotte King. Jewel thieves are terrible snobs."
I shook my head, feeling suddenly sick. "Because I interfered, you will lose a title? And an estate?"
Brisbane drank off his whiskey and put the glass carefully onto Father's desk. "It does not matter, my lady. I was not born to it. The loss of it does not grieve me."
The words should have been comforting, but somewhere underneath them was a current of some indefinable emotion in his voice that made me ache. Was it longing? Did he care so much for what he had never had? I thought of the life he might have led, lord of the country manor, perhaps a husband and father, caring for his stock and his tenants, managing them all with fairness and generosity. I could have wept for him. But something in his face, his implacable, unyielding face, warned me not to.
I rose, a trifle unsteady after the shocks I had endured and the whiskey I had drunk. "There is no possible method by which I may apologise as profoundly as you deserve. I can only tell you I will regret my thoughtlessness, my impetuosity, every day of my life."
I left them then. I heard the low rumble of voices as I closed the door. I did not stay to eavesdrop on what they might have said. They had their own differences to sort between them. I had interfered enough for one night.
Or so I thought. There was one last bit of meddling yet to come. It was a silly thing, really, that finally revealed to me the murderer of Lucian Snow. It happened when I tripped on my slipper on the stair. I was tired and stumbled a little, catching the sole. I looked back to find the slipper sitting on the stair, the toe facing backward, and when I went to pick it up, I understood what we ought to have seen before.
When I reached for the slipper, I instinctively turned my hand, thumb facing back, so that when I straightened and brought the slipper up, the toe would face forward. A simple, stupid detail one would never think on in the course of an ordinary day. But this had been no ordinary day. A man lay murdered under my father's roof, strangled by a right-handed man.
Unless the murderer was upside down. No, that was ridiculous. It was Snow who had to be upside down, and once I knew that, the rest of it fell tidily into place. I sank down onto the stair, closing my eyes to better imagine it.
I saw the two men in the chapel, perhaps by arrangement, perhaps by accident. Snow turns his back. Was he caused to do so? He could have been. The little bundle of jewels would have been a pretty lure. He could pocket them and then, his back still turned, he is struck down by a single vicious blow from the candelabrum.
Stunned, perhaps dying already, he slumps unconscious to the floor. His murderer turns him onto his back, and standing at Snow's head, reaches over his face to strangle him. The bruises would speak eloquently of a right-handed man, the perfect alibi for a left-handed murderer.
I opened my eyes, surprised to find myself still on the stair. I had seen it so clearly in my mind's eye. All but the face of the killer, and it did not require much imagination to supply that.
I rose and put on my slipper, determined not to waste a moment. I sped to the gentlemen's wing and knocked softly at one of the doors. It took an agonisingly long time before he replied, but at length he did. I had expected I would rouse him from sleep, but his hair was neatly combed, and his eyes, though shadowed with anguish, were clear and alert.
"My lady," he began, his expression one of naked astonishment. But I gave him no opportunity to say more. I pushed him into the room and closed the door behind us.
He recovered from his surprise and quickly gestured toward the chairs by the fire. I took one, schooling my expression carefully. I must not seem accusatory if I hoped to win his confidence. I must be gentle, sympathetic even.
With that in mind, I reached out when he had seated himself and I took his hand in mine. He started, but did not remove his hand, and after a moment I felt it relax in mine.
"I think you know why I have come. You are burdened. Would it not ease you to speak?"
He sighed then, a great exhalation carrying all the weight of the world with it, but he did not speak. His hand was warm and smooth in mine, and larger than I had expected. I had thought it would feel less substantial somehow, but there was a solid, sinewy strength in his fingers.
"It weighs on you, does it not? You should not carry this burden alone."
He gave a little groan and started to pull his hand away, but I held it fast and courtesy would not permit him to push me away.
"I shall not leave until you talk to me. Believe me when I say I am your friend, and I can help you. My family has a great deal of influence, and if you confide in me, I will do everything in my power to see justice is done. You believe that, do you not?"
He nodded, closing his eyes. His hand was now clasping mine, and I knew he was very nearly there. Just one last push…a shot in the dark, but my only chance to reach him.
"I think that she would want you to tell me."
His eyes flew open. "She said I must never," he whispered hoarsely.
I tightened my grasp on his hand. "She is overwrought. If she were thinking clearly, she would never want you to suffer, I am certain of it. And you are suffering now. It is written plainly on your face."
His expression did not change, but I noticed a sudden brilliance to his eyes, the shimmer of unshed tears. I had found his most vulnerable spot. And like Paris bringing down Achilles, my aim must be true.
"It is not right you should suffer. All you have to do is tell me, and it will be over."
For an instant I thought I had pushed him too far. But then his body sagged and his other hand reached out to cover mine.
"Yes. That is what I want, for it to be over," he murmured.
"Then tell me. I will not abandon you. I swear it."
"I believe you," he said simply.
And I settled in my chair and waited for Henry Ludlow to tell me everything he knew.
THE TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER
Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep, And in his simple show he harbours treason.
—II Henry VI
It was not his fault. He was Sir Cedric's employee and cousin, poor relation to a monster who held the purse strings. Whatever crimes Sir Cedric had committed, Ludlow must fear being charged as an accomplice. I could well understand why he had kept silent. But as his kinsman he must know Sir Cedric better than most, witnessed the ferocity of his temper, his obstinance. And he must have drawn his own conclusion about the author of the murder in the chapel. Lucy's claim to sanctuary must have cemented the conviction that Sir Cedric had murdered Lucian. A woman knows the heart of her beloved, and what she does not know, she intuits. Even if Lucy had not been privy to his plans, she had looked at the broken body on the floor of the chapel and known the handiwork of her beloved.
"Hi
s arrogance," Henry began softly, "was deplorable. I have rarely ever encountered a man so replete with it, and for so little cause. I would have hated him on his own merit, even if she had not revealed to me exactly what he was."
I felt the niggle of a question, but did not ask. Now that Henry was talking, I was reluctant to interrupt him.
"I have known other men like him—that bluff, hearty sort. Think they own the world, and they very often do. They stand astride the world like Colossus and they never see what they crush beneath their feet. I hated him from the moment I first made his acquaintance."
I had no choice but to break in. "Why did you accept a position in his employ?" I ventured softly.
Henry blinked at me. "Employ? I was not speaking of Sir Cedric. I was talking about Lucian Snow."
"Ah, yes, of course. I do apologise. Go on," I said with an encouraging smile, but inwardly I was thinking feverishly.
"His inhumanity, his impiety, characteristics to be deplored in a clergyman. To listen to him expounding his plan to reform the Gypsies did not improve my opinion of him," he said angrily. "And when I heard how he had left the army and taken a living so blithely, as a means of keeping himself with little effort and no care whatsoever for his parishioners, it made me quite physically ill."
He looked intently at me, his eyes alight with passion. "Do you know what I would have given for a living of my own? My very heart's blood. It was all I ever wanted. A small country parish where I could do some good. That was my entire life's ambition. To shepherd a flock. To guide, to help, to protect, to inspire. That is all I wanted. It was my dearest dream, and it was taken from me. And given to a man like that—no, not a man. A child. He looked at it as if it were a plaything, to be picked up and cast aside when it suited him, with no care for the needs of his parishioners, no interest in them save whether they had pretty daughters," he said, with real bitterness.
His hands were holding mine very tightly, and even if I had wanted to remove them, I doubt I could have done so.
"But I was cordial to him, because it is my job to be cordial to everyone with whom Sir Cedric chooses to associate. I told myself I should not have to bear him long. He would only be here until the wedding was celebrated. After that he would return to his lodgings in the village, and I would see him no more. I would think on him no more."
Henry's eyes slid away from mine then, and I knew he was seeing it all again in his mind's eye.
"And then she came to me, in tears. He was blackmailing her, demanding payment for his silence over some youthful transgression he had discovered through mutual acquaintances. She would not tell me what it was, only that he had misunderstood something quite terribly, had twisted an innocent mistake into something ugly and untrue. She had no money, and she faced utter ruin if he was not silenced."
The room was quite warm, I decided, or perhaps it was just that we were sitting too near the fire. But I dared not move and draw attention to myself. Henry seemed not to notice. A drop of perspiration trickled down his hairline, but he did not dash it away.
"You must not think we are friends. I would not presume such a thing—but we are confidants after a fashion. I told her of my disappointed hopes, and she told me of hers. She trusted me." My mind raced on, piecing the snippets he dropped in my lap. I had never heard any scandal attached to Lucy's name, but she had lived quietly. And if the youthful transgression was an innocent mistake as she claimed, it seemed reasonable we would not have heard talk of it. As for her relationship with Ludlow himself, it was entirely understandable. A young, romantic girl betrothed to a much older man of stern temperament—what other gentleman would serve so well as a confidant than her husband's cousin, her own future kinsman?
I turned my attention back to Ludlow. He picked up the thread of his tale, his voice lower. The perspiration was beading freely on his brow now, but still he did not move.
"She came to me, that first night we were here in the Abbey, when we were introduced to Lucian Snow at dinner. She was in tears. I have never seen her so distraught. It was half an hour before she could speak and tell me what he had done."
Here he broke off and, coming to himself a little, he wiped the sweat off of his brow. His other hand still clutched mine.
"What had he done?" I prompted softly.
"He threatened to reveal all to Cedric and the earl if she did not offer him payment. He said he would see her ruined if she failed."
He leaned a little closer, his expressive eyes dark with anguish. "Can you imagine what that meant to her? To see that monster here? In polite company, received by his lordship as an honoured guest? Sitting at table and making polite conversation with her? She was shattered by it, wholly. I could not believe that a man of God could be so foul. But I heard with my own ears when that man would talk so lightly of worldly things. I realised the picture she painted of him was a true one. And I knew he must be prevented from ever hurting anyone else."
I swallowed hard, sickeningly conscious of the fact that I was holding hands with a murderer. How had I gotten it so profoundly wrong?
"So you determined you must stop him," I said evenly. It would not do to alarm him now. There was nothing else to do but encourage him calmly to tell his tale.
"You must see that I had no choice," he said, a touch of anger sharpening his words.
"Of course," I told him, my tone soothing. "It had to be done."
His expression lightened at once. "Yes, that is it. It had to be done. You do understand. I did what must be done. And I am not repentant of it, save for the burden of guilt upon my immortal soul. It was no different than hunting a fox. He was predatory and destructive and he had to be stopped. So I took the jewels from Lady Hermia's room and while he was turned with his back to me, gloating over them, as trusting as a lamb, I struck him down. It was an easy thing, so much easier than I thought to put my hand to his neck and finish it. He did not even struggle. He simply opened his mouth and gave one great sigh and his eyes rolled over white. I had a bad moment when he would not turn loose of the jewels," he said, almost apologetically. "I thought I would have to force his hand open, but there was one last shudder and his fingers relaxed. I did not know the dead would do such a thing. I put them into my pocket, and later I left them with his things. I thought someone might find them there, and in death know him for what he was."
He bowed his head, raising our clasped hands until they touched his damp brow. We were silent for a long while; he seemed spent, and yet somehow cleansed, as if talking of the deed had washed him free of the stain of it. For my part, I knew I should never be clean of it, but still questions lingered.
"I am curious about something," I said softly. "When we entered the chapel and Lucy was discovered, standing over the body, why did you cry out and ask her what she had done? You as much as accused her of murdering Snow herself."
He flushed painfully. "That grieves me more than taking the life of Lucian Snow. Snow was a devil, and devils must be cast out. But implicating Miss Lucy was a sin I cannot forgive in myself." His expression was rueful. "I was tempted, my lady. I saw in that instant she might be blamed for it, just for a little while, and Cedric might break with her."
"And if he did not marry, you might inherit his millions," I finished.
He nodded, the flush ebbing to leave him white-lipped. "So much money, so much good might be done with it. But it was unworthy of me to covet what is not mine, and I am wholly repentant."
"But why did you attack Miss Lucy and Miss Emma with the brandy?"
His eyes widened. "I would never—that is, I could not. Not a lady. Least of all so good, so deserving a lady, nor her sister. I could never raise my hand against an innocent. I promise you, I have confessed my sins. Do not lay that one at my door as well."
His back drooped a little, and the spirit seemed to go out of him, but I was still wary. He was a changeable creature. His manner might be soft and gentle with me, but he had killed in cold blood, and I was deeply conscious of the fact that we
were alone together.
"Lady Julia, you must believe I did what I did because it had to be done. And I have paid for it every moment since. I cannot close my eyes that I do not see his, staring up at me as I pressed the life out of him. I am not accustomed to such dark deeds. I am a clergyman's son from Kent," he said with a small, mirthless laugh. "What do I know of such things?"
Tears gathered in his eyes again. "My father was right, you know. He always told me that of the seven deadly sins, envy was the deadliest. I was envious of Lucian Snow. It was not just that he was a monster. It was that he had everything I had not. And he did not deserve it."
"That was not for you to decide, Henry."
"I wanted to believe I was an instrument of justice. At least that is what I told myself when I thought of taking his life. But when the moment came, there in the chapel, when my hand tightened at his throat, all I felt was that cursed envy. I knew I was taking away from him everything he had that I did not, and I delighted in it. Tell me, Lady Julia," he said, his voice cracking on a sob, "who is the monster?"
He fell into me then, and I shied from him. But he meant me no harm. He was sobbing, the great, racking sobs of a child whose heart has been irreparably broken, and all he looked for in me was comfort. Without thinking, I put a hand on his back and petted him. He slid from the chair to his knees and stayed there, weeping into my lap for some time. Finally he recovered himself and drew back, wiping his face with a handkerchief.
"I am sorry. More than that, I am penitent. I know justice must be served, Lady Julia. I am content you should go and tell his lordship. I give you my word I will not try to escape," he said, straightening his shoulders and looking me squarely in the eye.
I rose and edged my way to the door. I did not truly believe he would harm me, but I had been wrong about such things before. It seemed to me a little caution, even at this late juncture, would be prudent.
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