“And this is something you are unable to do, Pettigrew?” Captain Edgerton said, with a gesture that encompassed the lawyer’s magnificent waistcoat, immaculately snowy neckcloth and fashionable coat.
“It is something I prefer not to do,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said with a smile. “Neate is very accomplished in the art of subtly extracting information from ostlers and tap boys and grooms, so by all means let us take advantage of it. He will have the information we require soon enough. Do you have an especial interest in his findings, Mr Benedict, or is your enquiry a general one?”
“He has a theory!” Edwin said brightly. “A very clever one.”
“Hypothesis,” Jerome said. “Not a theory, a hypothesis.”
“Same thing,” Edwin said with a shrug.
“Not the same at all. A hypothesis is untested, a theory is proved. So Mr Crick says, and furthermore—”
“Enough, obnoxious child,” Benedict said affectionately. “Let it be a hypothesis or whatever you want, but for my part, I am inclined to consider this unknown James Huntly as a very dubious character.”
“On what grounds?” Mr Willerton-Forbes said mildly. “Being unknown to one’s family is not yet a crime.”
“Not a crime, but very suspicious, surely? But I have other grounds for suspicion, or at least… it is merely a theory. Hypothesis.”
“By all means let us hear it,” the lawyer said, eyes twinkling. “I am very fond of a well thought out theory. Or hypothesis.”
Benedict smiled, again reminding Annie forcibly of Adam. “Very well,” he said, sitting back in the chair. Like his brother, he relished being the focus of all eyes. “Let us suppose that James Huntly died in infancy. That was not perhaps of much moment. He was the third son, after all. Uncle Henry died and Cousin Herbert inherited, and that was not of much moment, either, because he had married Judith, and would likely have sons, and in any event, there was still Cousin Rupert. But then Herbert died leaving no son, and Rupert was still unwed and suddenly there is an opportunity. Or rather, there would have been an opportunity, if only James were not dead. If there were a living James Huntly, he would now be the heir presumptive, with only Rupert between him and Willow Place. But who was to know that James had died? Few people knew he had ever lived, let alone his place in the Huntly family. So perhaps someone saw an opportunity. Perhaps someone came here and murdered Rupert, and is even now watching Annie to see if there might be a son. And when all is done, he will come here and claim Willow Place for his own, and no one any the wiser.”
“Interesting,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said thoughtfully.
“I like that idea very much,” Captain Edgerton said. “Not a soul would suspect. A very clever scheme.”
“But Mrs Connell has told us that James is dead,” Annie said. “That alone would throw suspicion on any such claim on Willow Place. If it were attempted, Mrs Connell would be obliged either to retract her previous statement that he was dead or else to expose the fraud.”
Benedict deflated at once. “You are right,” he said disconsolately. “His mother would have to be party to the scheme or it would fail instantly, and if she were party to it, she would not have told us that James was dead. And it seemed so plausible, too.”
“It is still plausible,” Captain Edgerton said firmly. “Or at least, a stranger with a claim on the estate is always a possibility to be aware of. We need as many ideas as our minds may contrive just now, so do not be downhearted.”
“Indeed,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said. “And as well as ideas, we will continue to investigate. Michael, you will go to see this Major Corbett tomorrow?”
“I will,” the captain said. “He may have nothing new for us, but it is important to know all that he can tell us. Shall you come with me, Pettigrew?”
“No, for tomorrow Mr Benedict and I will visit Mr Adam in Salisbury gaol, and ensure that he is in good heart.”
“May we come?” Jerome and Edwin said, almost in unison.
“I have a more important task for you two,” the lawyer said. “If my theory — hypothesis — is correct that the answer to this riddle lies in Grantham, then it may be that there is some clue in the missing will. A debt settled, perhaps, or an apology rendered. A man may oftentimes resolve his earthly difficulties after his death in that way. If it is something which reflects badly on the late Mr Huntly, that may be the reason why it was hidden. He might not wish it to be found accidentally. So your search for the will, gentlemen, is now more important than ever.”
“You may depend on us,” Edwin said, sitting up a little taller.
“Cousin Annie, may I start on the hunting room next?” Jerome said.
“Of course,” she said.
“May we go now, to make plans?”
She nodded, and Jerome and Edwin raced for the door.
“But what of me, Mr Willerton-Forbes? Is there anything I may do to Adam’s benefit? I feel so helpless.”
“My dear Mrs Huntly,” the lawyer said, laying one hand on her arm. “You need only continue to do exactly as you are doing, which is to be calm and rational, take care of Adam’s brothers and hold the family together until we can rescue Mr Adam from his present predicament.”
“And shall you be able rescue him?”
He hesitated. “You have my word that everything possible will be done to ensure it.”
“But you cannot guarantee it.”
“No. I cannot.”
“Is there a chance he may hang?”
A longer hesitation. “We must be realistic, Mrs Huntly. The signs are not good.”
24: The Path To Wickstead
As soon as she decently could after dinner, Annie went upstairs to see how Judith and her mother went on. Judith was weepy but otherwise under better control, apologising for her outbreak of hysterical behaviour.
“Do not apologise,” Annie said at once. “It was a perfectly natural reaction.”
More natural than her own extraordinary calmness, she felt. Tears and screaming and even her mother’s shocked immobility were the normal responses for a female of sensibility, but then Annie had never been over-endowed with that quality. Only once in her life had she swooned when faced with news of an upsetting nature, and she was still rather ashamed of such a reaction. However much she told herself that she had had a very trying day, and the news of her husband’s murder was broken in the roughest manner possible, she still felt that she should not have fainted away, like some overwrought society chit. She was too sensible for such antics.
Her mother was asleep.
“Mr Grey gave her laudanum, madam,” Betty said. “I’m sure she’ll be more herself in the morning.”
“Let us hope so,” Annie said sombrely.
“She ever been like this before, madam? Mr Grey asked, but I couldn’t say. Maybe she had a turn when Mr Dresden passed away?”
“No, nothing like this. She was distraught, of course, but not… not frozen like this. You go to bed, Betty. I shall sit with her tonight.”
“Oh, madam, you need your rest!” Betty said.
“I shall get plenty of rest in the chair. I might even doze a little, but if I were to go to my own bed, I should only worry about her and not sleep a wink.”
“Very well, madam, but ring if you need me. Edith’s going to sleep in the kitchen tonight, so she’ll hear the bell. There’s more laudanum on the dressing table, in case she wakes fretful, but not before two o’clock, Mr Grey said, and only three drops in water and make sure she drinks it all. Oh, but you know that, of course.”
“I know how to administer laudanum,” Annie said with a smile. “Off you go, Betty.”
Betty went. Annie checked her mother’s pulse, and looked for any sign of fever. Satisfied, she tended the fire, pushed a chair and footstool together, found a blanket and then settled down to keep watch over her sleeping mother. Perhaps it was selfish of her, but she preferred silence to her mother’s usual tears. The tears would come, of that she was sure, whenever the initial shock of
Adam’s arrest had worn off. Odd that she was more distressed by that than the murder, which had elicited only hand-wringing and the usual floods of tears. But perhaps to her mind it was more scandalous. A murder could happen to anybody unlucky enough to fall into the path of footpads or Romanies — Mama was profoundly hostile towards the poor Romanies, who were sure to be blamed by her for every crime large or small in the neighbourhood. But an arrest! A trial! A family member in court, and perhaps to be hanged! It was unspeakable to her delicate sensibilities.
Annie was glad to be of more robust temperament. To be overwhelmed by every little setback would render her helpless indeed, and she had no intention of being helpless. She must be strong! She would not allow herself to give way to despair, not while there was still hope of Adam’s release. Dear Adam, locked away in some horrid cell… was he awake and thinking of her at that moment? Was he remembering their words that afternoon, and their gentle kiss? Was he missing her as much as she missed him? Was he cheerful and optimistic, or deep in despondency?
If only there were some way she could help him! But what could she do? Mr Willerton-Forbes and Captain Edgerton were the ones busily working to prove Adam’s innocence. Even Jerome and Edwin had an important task to do. All Annie could do was to sit and wait.
“Henry?” A quavering voice from the bed tipped Annie out of her morose, self-absorbed state.
“Mama? How are you feeling?”
“Where is Henry?”
“Papa is… not here, Mama. May I bring you something? A little water?”
“Water…”
Annie slid an arm beneath her mother’s shoulders to raise her while she drank. How light she was. Goodness, but she was getting thin and frail! There was nothing of her, yet she was barely fifty. She had always eaten like a bird, but she would waste away altogether if she were not careful. Annie made a mental note to tell Mrs Hewitt to thicken the soups a little.
“Thank you, Martha,” Mrs Dresden said. Martha? Who was Martha?
“It is Annie, Mama. Are you comfortable? Would you like the pillows rearranged?”
But her mother’s eyes had closed. She was already asleep again.
Annie retreated to her chair, unaccustomed tears welling in her eyes. The rational part of her brain told her that it was just the laudanum confusing Mama, that she would be better in the morning, she would be well again, but the child still lurking inside was not rational. She remembered her terror when she had realised that Papa was dying, but then she had still had Mama. Dearest Mama, who had been her unfailing guide and supporter through her whole life, protecting and gently steering her. Her father, too, of course, and Uncle Tom, but her mother had been the pattern on which she had modelled herself. If she should lose her, too, and not to the arms of God but in some living death… How would she manage? Without her mother’s gentle surety, she was lost and alone. No mother, no father, no uncle and aunt, no husband… and no Adam.
Her heart turned over in fear. Yet Adam would be restored to her… surely he would. All she had to do was to wait and be strong, and if there were no one else for her to depend upon, well, then, she would just have to depend on herself. What was it Mr Willerton-Forbes had said? That she should ‘hold the family together’. Yes, she could do that. She could be strong for Adam and for her mother and for herself. And for her child. She could be strong enough for a whole family.
~~~~~
Annie’s mother was unchanged by morning, so once she had been dressed and given a cup of tea, which she drank without protest, Annie left Betty to watch her and went downstairs. She had dozed a little in the night, but her eyes were heavy and grainy, as if they were full of sand. She felt too nauseous even to drink her morning tea, but it could not be helped. She had too much to do to worry about it, and the anger still burning in her, low but constant, gave her strength.
Mr Willerton-Forbes, Captain Edgerton and Benedict departed early for Salisbury in Annie’s carriage, which would then go on to Bursham St John to collect Cecilia. Annie went to the hunting room. Jerome and Edwin were already there, methodically working through the books, one shelf at a time, Edwin up the ladder and Jerome below leafing through the pages of each book, then passing it back to be reshelved.
Seeing Annie open her writing box, Edwin said, “Do we disturb you, Cousin Annie?”
“Not at all,” she said. “I could write my letters elsewhere if that were the case. Please carry on and do not mind me.”
“We will be as quiet as mice,” Edwin said solemnly.
Annie had to smile at the thought of Jerome staying silent for more than two minutes at a time, but in this she misjudged him, for he was unusually subdued. Adam’s arrest had the power to quell even the irrepressible Jerome.
Pulling out a sheet of paper, Annie began her letters. A note to Mr Popham to ask him to call, for perhaps he had some influence on Sir Leonard. Another note to Mr Grey, asking him to visit Mama again as soon as may be. Then a longer letter to Uncle Tom — two whole sheets, not crossed, to explain events in more detail and to ask his advice about Mama’s state of mind. She could not recall any similar case, but he might know of a remedy more efficacious than Mr Grey’s bleeding and laudanum.
Breakfast was not the usual pleasant meal. Judith toyed with her food and sniffed, handkerchief in hand, constantly on the verge of tears. The older girls were sullen and Isobel, always attuned to her mother’s moods, grizzled and wriggled and threw food everywhere, as the nursery maid tried valiantly to coax her to good humour, or at least to stay in her chair.
“Oh, take her away, Dawn!” Judith said fretfully. “I cannot bear the noise, not when I am so unwell. Take them all away. Let us have some peace.”
Dawn scooped Isobel into her arms, who, having protested at being asked to stay still, now protested even more strongly at being removed. As she disappeared back to the nursery, fists pounding Dawn’s back, the two older girls chasing behind, her screams could be heard echoing all the way through the house.
Annie set herself the task of eating from at least three dishes, including a little meat. She preferred bread and pastries so early in the day, but Mama always said that babies needed flesh to grow healthy and strong, and so she nibbled reluctantly at a little ham.
When the footman came in with a fresh pot of tea, she said, “Sheffield, I have some letters for Billy to take as soon as he can get the mare saddled, and I shall want you to accompany me when I go out after breakfast. You will need ordinary clothes, not your livery.”
“Very well, madam. May I go and change now?”
She nodded her agreement, and poured herself another cup of tea. How refreshing tea was! She had so disliked chocolate in the mornings, so heavy that it sat inside her like lead.
“How can you be so calm?” Judith cried. “Anyone would think nothing had happened! There you sit, eating your breakfast, giving your orders as if it were just another day, while Adam languishes in gaol, Annie! He is accused of murder! He could be hanged any day now!”
“No, he is quite safe until the Lent Assizes,” Annie said, setting her teacup down before her shaking hands allowed the liquid to spill.
“Quite safe?” Judith cried, jumping to her feet. “Quite safe? How can you say so? You have no proper feelings, do you? Whether he lives or dies, it is immaterial to you, so long as your letters go off as usual and your meals are on the table. You care nothing for him, nothing at all, you wicked, unnatural creature. There is not an iota of emotion in you, none!”
The anger deep inside Annie flared into sudden heat, white and raging. “How dare you!” she said, her voice low but filled with fury. “You have no idea what I feel, none, so do not presume to censure me. Do you want to help Adam? Then stop this constant weeping, and set yourself to do something useful. He needs practical aid, not hand-wringing.”
Judith’s jaw dropped, then she flounced out of the room in a flurry of muslin.
“Very good, Cousin Annie,” Edwin said, buttering his fourth piece of toast.
/> “Where are you going with Sheffield?” Jerome said.
“To see the place where my husband was shot,” she said, tamping down her simmering anger.
“Captain Edgerton has already looked at it. Do you think he missed something significant?”
“That is unlikely,” Annie said. “However, every additional pair of eyes is valuable, and I should like to see the place for myself.”
It was not very far, she found. No more than ten minutes, according to her pocket watch, from the garden door to the spot where Sheffield stopped.
“This is it, madam. He lay just over there.”
“Where exactly?”
He took a few paces. “His head was here, and his feet… were just here.”
“And he was on his back?”
“Yes. His feet were slightly apart, and one arm was thrown back a little.”
“Sheffield, this is presumptuous of me, and I know the ground is muddy, but—”
“Of course, madam.”
And without the slightest hesitation, he lay down on the cold, wet ground, and assumed the pose of a dead man. Annie walked all round him, fixing everything in her mind.
“Was there a great deal of blood?” she said.
“Not really. A dark patch just here…” He gestured over the chest. “Not much to see otherwise.”
“It was dark when you came out to collect him, was it not? Not easy to see anything, I imagine.”
“True, madam, but there were plenty of torches and…” He stopped, and Annie thought he looked rather guilty.
“And?” she said gently.
“Billy and I came out the next day, just to have a look. There wasn’t much to see by then. A few dark stains that could have been blood or maybe not. A lot of boot prints and trampling.”
“Hmm.” Annie walked round him again.
The Apothecary (Silver Linings Mysteries Book 3) Page 24
