14
THERE WAS ONE momentary flash of something like fear in Darien’s eyes, and then it was covered by that cheerful bravado.
“This is preposterous,” he said with a smile. “There must be some mistake.”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” replied Inspector Wilson in a tone that was almost bored. No doubt he had heard countless criminals confess their innocence upon arrest, most of them guilty beyond all doubt.
But what about Darien? Was he guilty? I found it nearly impossible to believe. Granted, I knew very little about the young man, but my instincts told me he was not a killer. I had seen something in his expression in that brief moment, the alarm and dread of a child who suddenly realizes he is lost, and my heart went out to him.
“If you’ll just come with us, sir,” the sergeant said. “Please be aware that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.”
He took hold of Darien’s arm.
Darien turned to Milo, his eyes flashing. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”
“What do you expect me to do?” Milo asked.
“I didn’t kill him,” he protested.
“Perhaps not. But you won’t be hanged today. There will be a trial.”
These rather cold words told him plainly what sort of help Milo was going to be, and so Darien turned to me.
His eyes locked on mine, and suddenly he looked much younger. “I didn’t kill him, Amory. You must believe me.”
And, heaven help me, in that moment, I did.
* * *
AFTER INSPECTOR WILSON and his sergeant had led the protesting Darien away, I turned to Milo. I was still half-dazed by what had happened.
“This is dreadful.”
“Yes, I’m sure Darien thinks so, too,” he replied, though he didn’t sound especially affected by the scene we had just witnessed. Indeed, it was apparent to me that he wasn’t feigning his calm. He had dropped the mask he had worn for Darien, but there was only indifference beneath it.
“What are you going to do?” I asked him, unconsciously echoing Darien’s question.
His brows rose ever so slightly. “I’m not going to do anything. As I told him, there will be a trial. It’s out of our hands.”
I stared at him, not knowing what to make of this coldness toward his brother. “Surely you don’t believe he killed Bertie.”
“He seems a perfectly logical suspect to me.”
“But … but we’ve discussed other suspects. What about Mrs. Hodges? What about the broken drawer in the vicar’s desk and the envelope that apparently had money in it?”
“None of them threatened to kill Bertie. Darien did. And the envelope was found in his possession.”
“He threatened Bertie, yes, but he didn’t mean it. You know he didn’t.”
He looked at me, and there was something hard in his gaze. “I don’t know anything about him, and neither do you. Just because he’s my brother doesn’t mean that he can’t be a killer. Indeed, in the short time we’ve known him, he’s given us a very good indication that he is coldhearted and remorseless.”
It was true that he had treated Imogen badly, but it wasn’t a fair comparison.
“That’s not the same thing, and you know it,” I protested. “Just because he’s a cad doesn’t mean he’s a murderer.”
“It’s the job of the police to sort it out.”
“Milo, he’s your brother,” I said, appealing to his better nature.
I ought to have known better.
“I met him only a week ago. Do you suppose that the very thin thread that is our father’s blood means anything to me?”
I studied him, wondering if he meant it. I knew how he felt about his father, how he had always felt about him. What was more, Milo had no hint of the sentimentalist in him.
I grasped at straws. “But you … you offered to give him money. Surely you thought he deserved something.”
“The money I offered him came from my father. Our father owed him as much. I owe him nothing.”
There was something very set about his expression that made me realize he didn’t intend to relent.
“Milo, you can’t…”
“Listen to me, Amory,” Milo interrupted. “We’re not going to get involved with this.”
“We are involved with it,” I said. “Whether you like it or not, Darien is your brother, and we can’t just wash our hands of this whole thing.”
“He has no claim on my time or my resources,” Milo said.
I didn’t know exactly how to reply. I was stunned. For some reason, Milo had already made up his mind about Darien.
I realized suddenly that something must have happened, something that had caused this bewilderingly sudden shift in his perspective, this iron resolve that I was apparently powerless against.
“What is it?” I asked at last. “Why have you turned against him?”
One dark brow rose. “The evidence isn’t enough? The bloody boot, the money, and the missing necklace found in his possession?”
I shook my head. “It’s too easy. I don’t think he’d be so foolish as to leave evidence in his room.”
He sighed. Turning, he walked to the sofa and sat down. I followed him.
“It was Ludlow’s telephone call,” he said. “He’s discovered something about our Darien.”
The pace of my heart increased at his words, and I realized in that moment how desperately I wanted Darien to be innocent. “What did he say?”
“Darien was involved in another situation like the one with Imogen. He was using his mother’s surname then, Archer. There was a young woman—a married young woman. She had a much older husband who, after she began her affair with Darien, died by falling from his horse, leaving her with a good deal of money.”
The comparison was clear enough. “You don’t think he…”
“The accident aroused suspicion, but then the young woman in question threw herself in front of a train and brought an end to the matter.”
I gasped. “How horrible.”
“Yes. So you see, things don’t look good for Darien. Even before Inspector Wilson arrived, I had my suspicions.”
“But even that isn’t proof that Darien was involved in that death,” I said. “Perhaps the woman did it and then killed herself out of guilt.”
His gaze was cynical. “You’re much too smart to believe in such a staggering coincidence.”
“But what if Darien is innocent?” I said at last. “He could hang for this, for something that he didn’t do.”
“That’s what trials are for. You seem to think that sharing a bloodline automatically creates some sort of bond between us. His turning up on the doorstep unannounced does not constitute a relationship between us, and if he is guilty, he ought to hang for it.”
I blanched at the callousness of this sentiment. “But, Milo…”
His eyes locked on mine. There was a flash of unguarded irritation in them—uncharacteristic of him to let me see it—and then he answered in a voice that had grown hard. “Amory, I’m done discussing this.”
I blinked. He had seldom used that tone with me, and I was startled.
I clenched my teeth against the desire to retort, to plead with him that he could not let this happen without lifting a finger to prove his brother’s innocence. I could tell from the way he had spoken to me, however, that it wasn’t going to do any good to argue with him.
“Very well,” I said, rising from my seat. Without another word, I turned and left the room.
* * *
I BLAMED MY pregnancy for the tears that sprang to my eyes as I hurried away from the drawing room. I was furious with Milo: furious for his refusal to at least consider the possibility that Darien was innocent, furious for the tone he had taken with me, and furious that he hadn’t followed me when he knew I was hurt.
Swiping away the angry tears, I went into the morning room. Glancing at my knitting still sitting on the sofa, I knew that I was in no mood to sit still. Besides,
on the off chance Milo did come in search of me, I didn’t want to speak to him.
In this contrary frame of mind, I thought a walk might do me good. Since Winnelda always acted as though I’d suggested climbing a mountain or swimming the Channel when I attempted any sort of physical activity, I decided against going to my bedroom to collect a jacket. The light jumper I wore would have to suffice.
I ventured out through the French doors in the morning room. The early evening air was cool, and I breathed deeply in an attempt to calm myself.
It wouldn’t do any good, I knew, to get overwrought. I just needed to calm down and think. I was certain that, in time, I would be able to talk some sense into Milo.
I set off down the little path that led from Thornecrest’s kitchen garden, along the hedgerows to a little wooden gate and then across a field to a stone fence where there was a sturdy stile. The path on the other side of the fence led to the village, and I had taken it often. It was a safer path for an evening walk than the main road, as there would be no chance of encountering vehicles. I didn’t move as fast as I once did, and I didn’t want to walk along the curving road, in case of speeding automobiles.
It was a beautiful spring evening. The sun was shining through the clouds as it began to make its descent, tinting their edges with bright gold. The air was fresh and smelled of lavender, verbena, and wild roses. In the distance I could see the shadowy hillsides spotted with sheep.
A cool breeze blew, rustling my hair, and I pulled my jumper a bit more tightly around me as I looked across the landscape.
Thornecrest looked beautiful in the evening light. Looking at its serene stillness, its stones and spires bathed in golden light, one would never imagine the turmoil that had just occurred within its walls. That’s the way it was with all houses, I supposed. They hid so much of what was happening within: years, even centuries, of joy and heartbreak. The fleeting foibles of its occupants insignificant in the scope of time.
Only they were not insignificant to us.
My anger fading slightly, I tried to see things from Milo’s perspective. I could understand how Darien’s arrival was difficult for Milo. Indeed, it was not exactly convenient for me. This was not something I had expected to deal with in the weeks leading up to the baby’s birth. We had been prepared for a baby; we were not prepared for the arrival of a heretofore unknown male relation and the inherent problems that came with him.
The suspicion of murder aside, I didn’t know what to make of Darien. There was something very reckless and selfish about him. I suspected he’d been indulged much of his life, the same way Milo had been. He hadn’t been raised with Milo’s money, but being extremely good-looking was a definite boon in life. It was already quite apparent that he charmed women with the same skill and ease Milo had always done. There was no telling what else he had done to benefit himself.
Nevertheless, I could detect in him something of the uncertain young man he had no doubt been only years ago. He was illegitimate, abandoned by his father, and had been raised in less-than-prosperous circumstances. He had enough confidence in himself, that was certain, but he lacked the confidence Milo had always had in his situation in life, the knowledge that there were always vast resources at his disposal.
Though Darien could be a most unlikable young man, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him. And, after all, he was my husband’s brother. I felt as though it was our duty to help him in some way. At the very least, we needed to be sure that he wasn’t falsely convicted of a crime he hadn’t committed.
I considered, objectively, the possibility that he might have killed Bertie Phipps. The threat I set aside as a hotheaded response to a physical altercation. And lovely as Marena Hodges was, I didn’t see Darien as the type of young man to kill for love, or his version of it. No, those things were less concerning to me than the items that had been found in his room. But, as I had told Milo, surely Darien was too clever to leave the proof of his crime sitting about. It seemed more likely that someone had put the items there. I just didn’t believe that he was guilty.
Beyond all that, there was a feeling I had, the instinct that had served me well in other such situations. It was the expression on his face when the inspector had come to arrest him, the mixture of disbelief and uncertainty, that had really convinced me. And perhaps it was my newly developing maternal instincts, but there was something in Milo’s cold rejection of Darien that made me want to care for him.
My thoughts were interrupted by the rustling of footsteps on the grassy path, and I turned to see Imogen approaching. She caught sight of me a moment later and stopped, surprised.
“Oh! Mrs. Ames. What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Just taking a walk,” I said, wondering the same thing about her.
“I was, too,” she said. “It’s lovely here, looking across the countryside.”
“Yes.”
We stood for a moment, looking out at the pleasant vista before us. I didn’t believe, of course, that she had merely been taking the evening air. While it was true that this path led directly to the village, few people took it unless they were coming to Thornecrest. There were a great many country paths at a closer proximity to Mrs. Cotton’s rooming house Imogen might have taken if she were merely seeking an evening constitutional.
As I had hoped, the weight of silence seemed to do the trick.
“I … I … in truth, I was coming to see you,” she said at last. “Or, at least, I was working up the nerve to do so.”
“Oh?”
“I … I need to confess something.”
I waited. “Confess” was such a strong word. I wondered momentarily if she might have had something to do with Bertie’s death. But the two of them had been strangers. Hadn’t they? I realized that I knew very little of Imogen’s background. She worked in London and had holidayed in Brighton, but that was the extent of my knowledge of her past.
In the time all of this passed through my mind, Imogen had summoned the courage to come out with her admission. “I told the police that I saw Darien leaving the scene of the murder.”
I stilled. So Imogen had been the witness that Inspector Wilson had mentioned.
“I see,” I said noncommittally. I had found, in the past, that it was better to say as little as possible. People with something on their mind generally filled the silence, and there was often useful information to be gleaned.
“You’re going to think I did it to be spiteful,” she went on. “But I didn’t. It’s the truth. I saw him walking across that field where … where they found the … body later.”
“Did you speak to him?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t see me, and I didn’t want to talk to him. Not then. I was still so confused about everything. And then I heard that a body had been found and that it was murder. And I knew … I knew I had to tell the police what I had seen. I didn’t mean to hurt Darien. But I had to tell the truth.”
I studied her, trying to gauge her sincerity. It was one thing to say one loved a young man and quite another to implicate him in a murder. Telling the truth to the police had been the right thing to do, of course, but I didn’t think she should be surprised by the results.
“You were angry with him,” I pointed out, waiting to see what effect the words would have.
She flushed, looking very pretty in the gloaming. “Of course I was. Wouldn’t you be if someone had done such a thing to you? But I didn’t lie about it.” Her eyes met mine and held. “I didn’t.”
I didn’t know what to think. I had believed Darien when he proclaimed his innocence, but it seemed to me that Imogen was just as sincere. Which of them was lying? Or was there some way that they might both be telling the truth?
I supposed only time would tell.
Time, and some well-placed questions.
15
AFTER A BIT of crying on her part and a bit of ineffectual soothing on mine, Imogen and I parted ways. I had told her we would see what we could do for Darien
, though by “we,” I meant myself, as Milo clearly had no intention of getting involved.
It was nearly dark by the time I returned to Thornecrest. I entered the house the way I had left it, through the morning room doors. I walked quietly through the hallway and up the stairs to our bedroom. My anger had cooled, but I was still not much in the mood for Milo.
Winnelda found me instead. She had an uncanny knack for seeking me out at a moment’s notice. Perhaps that was the mark of a good lady’s maid.
“Where have you been, madam?” she asked worriedly, eyeing the bits of wet grass clinging to my discarded shoes.
“Out for a walk.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes.” I suppose there was an edge to my tone that discouraged further questions on that score, for she let the matter drop.
“Will you be dressing for dinner?” she asked.
“No, I think not. Perhaps you can just bring me up a tray with a bit of something?”
I knew that “a bit of something” would likely turn into a tray heaped with all manner of food, but I hadn’t the energy to argue with her.
To my relief, she returned a short time later with a small bowl of soup, bread and butter, and a pot of tea. It was just the right thing after a long day, and I was touched at Winnelda’s thoughtfulness. Though normally chattiness personified, she seemed to sense that I needed time alone and left me to eat my dinner in silence.
I had bathed, dressed in my nightclothes, was already in bed when Milo at last made his appearance in our bedroom.
I briefly considered feigning sleep, but I knew that was childish and might also prove a boring ruse to maintain should Milo stay awake for any length of time. So, instead, I waited to see what he would say. If, however, I expected contrition on his part, I was to be disappointed. He didn’t even ask me where I had been for the past two hours. Instead, he went to the bathroom to wash up and then changed for bed himself.
There was a heavy silence in the room. I was reminded of the troubled times in our marriage, when we had been virtual strangers to each other’s thoughts. At least it didn’t appear that Milo intended to sleep in the adjoining bedroom as he had for the rockiest year of our union, for at last he came and got into bed beside me.
A Deception at Thornecrest Page 14
