by Decca Price
“Where are we going, miss?”
“We’ll go to London. My aunt won’t leave us standing in the street, no matter what she thinks of me. At least not for a night. But first we must hurry to Oakley Court.”
Latimer hadn’t bothered with a lantern. He knew the way to the abbey ruins so well he could have found his way in total darkness.
Calculating he had nearly an hour to wait, he sat on a half-wall of the wrecked chapel, well concealed but situated to detect Montfort’s approach. If the moon slipped behind the clouds, he’d still hear him moving through the tall weeds.
“Meet me at the royal tower,” Latimer had told the boy to say. “I have something important to tell you.”
“Be sure to add that she seemed worried and had been crying,” Latimer had added.
He leaned back against a broken buttress and watched an owl sail across the clearing. Montfort would come alone, of course, though Latimer hoped he wouldn’t bring one of his infernal hounds along.
His thoughts wandered to Lucy. Despite all his threats and pleas, she had told on him. First to George, then to Josiah. “Told on.” The phrase was childish, he admitted, but when she was a child, the worst thing anyone could call her was tattletale. She quickly learned to keep her complaints to herself, necessary for a little girl if she wanted to play with the boys.
He raised his eyes to Montfort Abbey’s broken tower, discernable only because it was a darker black against the sky. One of Lucy’s favorite games was to play queen and knights. George once stole an embroidered velvet table covering from his mother’s boudoir and used it to make a throne at the base of the bloody tower where the infamous Jacinta had met her end. The boys crowned her with wildflowers, and it was only when they paraded her back to the house that Lady Montfort discovered the theft, for at that point Caesar wore a splendid velvet saddlecloth.
How Lucy had cried! Not because the game ended so abruptly, but because she didn’t want to see George punished.
Lucy’s tears. He wished he could get the sound out of her weeping out his head.
He wrapped his fingers around the short iron bar in his pocket. What was he doing out here? He should have just gone to Oakley Court and had it out. As long as his secrets were safe, he had enough power over Montfort to get the deed to Oak Grove, and even if Claire managed to tell someone, she had no proof. From her first day in Herefordshire, her behavior was irregular and it was a known fact that already-unstable women could be unhinged by the initial shock of the marital obligation. Finding two doctors to certify her and lock her away in a private asylum wouldn’t be difficult. He had money enough.
Or would, once Montfort was persuaded.
He heard a rustling too measured and too low to the ground to be wind and stood, ready to face his adversary.
The wind was rising when Annie and Claire slipped out the back door into the service area of the house. Though it was barely autumn, dry leaves skittered across the stones and made Claire jump. She skirted the house, staying as close to the walls as possible lest the light from the house cast their shadows across the broad lawn and reveal their presence. Edward had left the first floor ablaze with light, and the urns and topiary on the terrace cast long, distorted shapes beyond the bright rectangles of light from the windows. They rippled on the ground like dark water.
Annie stayed so close behind Claire she collided with her when Claire stopped suddenly. But when Claire grasped Annie’s hand and tugged her toward the garden, Annie tugged back.
“No, miss! That’s the way he went!”
Claire hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. “I’m certain Mr. Latimer’s errand will take some time. But we need a lantern from the stable. We can’t afford to get lost in the dark.”
Annie trailed Claire reluctantly around the perimeter of the stable yard and halted.
“You’d best let me go in, miss, in case there’s anybody about. I doubt word’s gotten over from the house that I lost my place and I can say you was wanting me to take a message to Miss Simms or somethin’. If he’s there, I can just run.”
“I’ll wait by the summer house. Be careful.” Annie set Claire’s valise down and, chin high, set off at a brisk walk toward the stable. She was back at Claire’s side in no time, though to both women it seemed like hours. She held up a small bull’s-eye lantern.
“I was lucky. Bill Tressel was beddin’ down the horses tonight. He’s sweet on me and dropped what he was doin’ in a flash to help me out. Thank goodness he had just started his work, otherwise he would’ a come with me!”
They covered the mile to Oakley Court in less than a half-hour. Claire stumbled to a halt when they rounded a curve in the drive and saw the massive, crenelated front of Oakley Court looming against the sky. A flag on the tall central tower whipped and snapped, signifying that the viscount was in residence.
Approaching was now the difficulty. Intermittent moonlight reflected off the gravel drive, but apart from a pair of torches flaring on either side of the archway that pierced the main tower, no lights showed. Just off to their right, though, about twenty feet away, two red sparks gleamed. Over the wind, Claire heard a growl.
“Annie,” Claire said. “One of Lord Montfort’s mastiffs sees us. His keeper should be nearby, but if he isn’t, you run for the house. Head for the light and when you get to the doorway, make as much noise as you can.”
Claire took the valise from Annie and lifted it in both hands, intending to throw it if necessary, and started walking slowly toward the dog. She put as much distance between her and Annie as she dared, hoping the animal would keep its eyes on her yet not be provoked to attack.
“Hello? Is anyone about?” she called. “Hello!” Only wind and a rumble from deep in the dog’s chest. It had come closer, even as she had, so that they stood barely ten feet apart. It would have her in its jaws in an instant, regardless of whether she ran or waited. She could see it now, poised to spring.
The phrase Montfort had taught her and Carey, the one to control the mastiffs he’d given her after the fire—would he train all his dogs to the same command? It was her only hope.
Before she could speak, a deep male voice called out from beyond the crouching canine. The dog sank to the grass and whined.
“You there, halt!” the man shouted at her now. He snapped a stout chain to the dog’s collar and raised his lantern to inspect her and Annie, who now stood close beside her.
“Ladies!”
“Please,” said Claire, shielding her eyes from the glare. “I have urgent business with Lord Montfort. Can you take me to him?”
“His Lordship went off toward the New House less’n an hour ago,” the man said, a question in his voice. “That girl behind you, isn’t she the lady’s maid there? She can take you if it can’t wait.”
Annie spoke up. “We just came from there and didn’t see anyone.”
“His Lordship took the shortcut through the woods...”
“Annie,” Claire said, thrusting the valise at the girl. “Wait for me. I’m sure his Lordship’s man here will see you safe and dry in the kitchen. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Claire took off running before Annie could protest.
Montfort had no trouble finding his way in the night. As boys, he and George often went out with the keepers or to fish. They’d spent one entire summer in pursuit of a prize barbel rumored to lurk in the swift-running waters of the river. When Rhys had landed it at last, his older brother had been as proud as if he himself had been the victor.
The white moon was riding high now, bathing the land in liquid silver, and the night was alive with unseen creatures. Crickets and other night insects droned steadily, and far off a tawny owl scree’d to its mate. As he followed the path through the wood and onto the verge of the meadow, he wasn’t surprised to see a fox slip into the underbrush, a limp hare dangling from its jaws.
Nor was he surprised to find Latimer in the chapel ruins.
“Come out now, Latimer,” he call
ed as he approached. “No need to make a game of this.”
Latimer stepped out of the shadows and waited.
“God, man,” Montfort said as he closed the distance between them. “You look like Varney the Vampire, skulking there. May I assume Mrs. Latimer is not with you?”
“My wife’s whereabouts are no concern of yours.”
“I daresay not. Do you care to explain this ridiculous charade or do I have to guess? If you wanted to meet, you could have just said so. We’re not sworn enemies.”
“No? Then what was your purpose in buying Oak Grove out from under me?”
“It simplifies things, Latimer. A number of things, in fact. You don’t have to worry about a protracted lawsuit—you can just pay me rent and live there as long as you wish. You and your wife.”
“And in return?
“In return, you will stop threatening me. We both know you had something more to do with Marguerite Carter’s death than anyone suspects.”
“No one would believe you—you, of all people,” Latimer sneered. “The man who let his brother die and murdered his faithless wife?”
“Nevertheless, I think both of us would like this matter dropped. Police methods have improved, Latimer. They’re much more scientific now. My name may be black as pitch hereabouts, but I still have enough pull to get the right people asking questions. Do you want to risk that?”
“I’ve already warned you—they’ll be asking just as many questions about you. I had no motive to murder the woman. It’s clear now you had all the motive in the world. A jury would just need to see that deed you were waving at me this evening to hang you.”
Montfort stood so close to Latimer he could see the moonlight reflected in his eyes.
“You haven’t asked how I found her family. Don’t you wonder what led me to them so easily? Aren’t you afraid of what else I know?”
Latimer retreated a step. “I suppose you are going to tell me.”
“Joss came to see me a few days before he died. Don’t look so startled. He was worried about Lucy. When he got back, no one could tell him where she was.”
“What else did he say?”
“I really wasn’t interested in listening to him. We’d hardly been friends since that damn book of his. He seemed sorry enough, but the damage can’t be undone. When I saw that ring, though, the ring your wife wore and the dead woman, too, I remembered a remark he made—something about a friend coming over to join him, and then they’d be traveling.”
“And? That was hardly enough information.”
“I’d assumed he meant a man, but here we were, faced with a woman, clearly foreign and clearly with a connection to Joss. He always used the White Star line, and that means Liverpool. If she was the one Joss was expecting, there had to be more baggage, so I went to Liverpool.”
“How one earth did you run her to ground at that lodging house?”
Montfort raised an eyebrow. “So. You went looking to?”
“Yes.”
“Obviously, you were too late.” Montfort sat down on a block of stone and tried to make out the expression on the silent Latimer’s face. “And if you must know, it wasn’t so hard. Joss used to stay there.”
“What were you hoping to find?”
“The same as you, of course. Proof—or not—the woman was who she said.”
“Nothing else?”
“What else could there be?”
“Joss didn’t tell you anything else?”
Montfort cocked back his hat and looked up from under the brim. He hadn’t felt this confident around Latimer in years. “About a manuscript, say? A diary? Or a letter?”
He leapt back as Latimer pulled his hand out of his pocket and lunged. Out of Latimer’s reach, he pointed the small pistol he’d brought.
“Let’s not get silly, Latimer,” he said. “You can’t fight me—I proved that earlier this evening. Let’s just go back to settling rents and terms and forget all this, shall we? I apologize for taunting you. It was childish of me. There is no unfinished ‘Rector,’ Mrs. Carter had no diary, there are no incriminating letters about anything. What could Joss have had on you anyway? You’re the decent one among us—in deed, if not in thought.”
The two men eyed at one another warily.
“How can I be sure you’re telling the truth?” Latimer said at last.
Montfort laughed softly. “You act like you do have something to hide. It was only a cheap novel, Latimer. Your reputation would stand against anything Joss could have written. You were right. People already thought badly of me, so they were ready to believe worse. Come. Let’s go back to the house and come to an arrangement, like civilized men.”
He held out his hand, but Latimer averted his head. He was returning the cosh to his pocket when a cry startled them. Montfort turned in the direction of the sound, which came from the far side of the ruins. Latimer brought the bar down hard on the back of Montfort’s head.
As Montfort dropped to his knees, he thought he heard an unearthly shriek, as though the hounds of hell pursued someone through the abbey ruins. He fell to the ground and the shriek echoed in his skull again. All was silent for a moment before the night chorus resumed its manic chatter.
Chapter 19
Claire was no sooner out of sight of the house and into a stand of trees before she wished she had asked for the night watchman or even some boy from the house to come with her. She hesitated, then ran on. Unless Josiah had been inaccurate about geography as well as history, the ruins would to be just beyond a rise to the west of the house and less than a quarter-mile away.
Within a hundred yards, she felt a path under her feet. She picked up her pace and followed it until she all but collided with a stone wall—a remnant of the outer castle defenses. She opened the lantern eye and spun slowly in a semicircle, shining the beam left, up and right. The barrier stretched out of the light in both directions, but the path hugged it as far as she could see. The wall was too high to climb, but she wouldn’t have in any case. She’d do no one any good if she plunged into the darkness on the other side and broke her neck.
She turned left. Oak Grove should be due south, so this path should take her away from the precipitous drop into the dungeons.
As she followed the track along the wall, she thought she heard voices carried faintly on the wind. After a few minutes, she rounded a curve in the wall and plainly heard men talking. She stopped, faintly relieved. They weren’t shouting. They didn’t even sound angry.
She felt vaguely foolish. Surely Edward wouldn’t harm one of his oldest friends. He was angry with her, upset by this news Montfort had brought about the property. Could it be that he had said those horrible things about Josiah and the dead woman simply to frighten her? Murder happened in sensation novels, not in real life. And respectable men didn’t go around murdering people. It was absurd. Crime was a lower-class phenomenon. Wasn’t it?
She remembered Lucy’s note, now less than ashes. She hadn’t imagined that, nor Edward’s violent reaction. She refused to think about what he planned to do to her when he came back to the house, expecting to find her helpless on the bed.
A rustling behind her in the underbrush sent her heart racing and she swung the lantern abruptly. In the narrow beam stood a fox, a bloody hare clutched between its teeth. Its amber eyes met hers briefly before it calmly trotted off into the night.
The sound of the men’s voices caromed oddly amid the trees and stones. She needed to reach them and warn Montfort. But where were they?
The moon, behind her when she’d left the house, now was high and to her right. The track wound among the tall grass and turned abruptly into the trees. She listened hard, then retraced her steps as the wind shifted and took the voices with it.
Her chest grew tight and her breath quickened as she realized she was lost. A wrong turn could take her away from Edward and Montfort. A false step could be her death.
Brambles caught at her skirts, and mud oozed up over her boots as the p
ath petered out. Sucking sounds accompanied every step as she inched forward on ground soft as dough after the steady days of rain. Here and there on the path ahead, puddles sullenly reflected the light.
On a drier path again, Claire followed a low line of stones, the remains of another wall, she thought, or part of the old chapel. The voices grew louder and she hurried recklessly on the uneven ground.
Between one step and the next, the earth gave way beneath her feet. She tumbled back hard enough to knock the breath out her lungs in a loud cry and slid down a steep embankment.
A shower of dirt, small stones and dead leaves rained on her at the bottom of a narrow roofless passage. She righted herself and brushed debris off her face with muddy hands. Cold moonlight poured in like icy water from above and she saw she was in what once were the castle’s cellars. At intervals along the steep wall opposite, dark openings indicated entrances to corridors or chambers. She gulped and pushed away visions of must have occurred in those dark places in the dark past.
She assumed the lantern was lost and groped along the wall. The voices floated above her now. She tripped and her outstretched hands plunged into a fall of mud close to the wall. She sank up to her elbows into the muck, where one hand struck something smooth and hard. She pulled back and rubbed her hands on her skirt, trying to get free of a tangle of dead vegetation or rotted fibers that clung to her fingers.
After a few halting steps, her foot struck hollow metal. Kneeling cautiously, she waved her hand in the air just above the ground until she felt warmth and retrieved the lantern. By some miracle, it had not gone out.
With relief, she opened the lantern shutter. And saw, clinging to her skirt, a hank of something long and trailing. A jeweled comb enmeshed in the reddish strands winked dully in the lantern light.
Claire shrieked and dropped the lantern, slapping frantically at her skirt, then shrieked again.
Latimer hit Montfort off balance and the glancing force of the blow sent a surge of pain up his arm. He dropped the cosh, abandoned it in the grass and picked up a fist-sized stone. What had worked for him once would work again.
