A Fête Worse Than Death (17 page)

Marguerite rose to her feet. ‘Not you as well,' she cried passionately. ‘I thought you were on my side! And all the time you believe that! He doesn't want my money, you hear, he doesn't! You want me to tell him. All right, I will.' She struck an angry tear from her eye. ‘And if he never wants to see me again, because – and only because – of who I am, then perhaps that'll satisfy you.' She moved as if to leave, but Haldean unpropped himself from the mantelpiece and stood in front of her.

‘Look, don't go rushing off again. It really won't solve anything. We all want to help. We do, you know.'

He wanted to talk to her alone very badly indeed. He'd been wrong, he knew he'd been wrong, but he wanted to hear some sort of confirmation from Marguerite herself. ‘Why don't you come for a walk? It's a corking night – soft summer breezes, any amount of moonlight, flocks of nightingales all tuning up and just waiting for an audience. They get fearfully discouraged if no one pays them any attention. Come and work it all out on me and if you don't want to talk about how absolutely vile things are, I've got no end of stories that will elevate, educate and amuse. Come on. Let's see what Sussex is like in the dim eventide.' He smiled as he spoke and Marguerite reluctantly smiled back.

‘All right. If you're sure you want to.'

‘Wasn't I making myself clear? Of course I want to. Ups-a-daisy. We won't be very long. The garden it is. Yes?'

They went out through the french windows on to the terrace. As Haldean's voice faded away, Lawrence leaned back in his chair and shook his head. ‘Oh, hell! Why did I have to say that about Whitfield? Now I've put her back up and she'll never trust me again. I hate her being so upset and yet I'm damned if I know what she sees in the guy.'

‘Whitfield's all right,' said Sir Philip gruffly. ‘First-rate horseman.'

‘Marguerite isn't a horse, Philip,' said Lady Rivers, absently. ‘Don't worry, Mr Lawrence. I'm sure Marguerite will come round. After all, she knows you have her best interests at heart and she must be aware of how much you care about her.'

Isabelle looked at her mother sharply. She was probing. Very delicately, very inoffensively, but probing.

Lawrence sighed. ‘Care for her! I'll say. Why, her happiness is just about the most important job I've ever taken on, and I've had some tough ones in my time.'

Lady Rivers said nothing. It was not, perhaps, the most reassuring of answers.

Out in the moonlit garden, Haldean was keeping up a gentle flow of chatter which Marguerite was clearly paying little attention too. He came to a stop, but she laid a hand on his arm. ‘No, please. Do go on. I was listening but it's so difficult being . . . being . . .'

‘Being the centre of attention? It's rotten, isn't it, knowing that everyone's thinking about you and working out what they should say.'

She gave him a quick, sharp glance. ‘So you do understand.' She gave a little sigh of relief. ‘I hate all this, you know. It was awful having to say those things about Richard, about him not having proposed or anything.' She looked at him with wide eyes. ‘I feel so utterly miserable. Everyone talks about Richard as if I'd be doing him such a favour by marrying him but it's all the other way round. If only they knew . . . It makes me feel such a fraud, as if I were making a fuss about nothing. And I could be, you know. Oh,
why
did Mr Lawrence have to come over? Why couldn't he just leave me alone?'

‘Because, not unnaturally, he cares about what happens to you,' Haldean said firmly. ‘Aunt Alice wrote to him as soon as she thought there was a chance of your being engaged. As your trustee he's got to know what's going on and, you must admit, the circumstances are difficult.'

‘Difficult!' She moved impatiently. ‘I didn't make them difficult.'

‘No. But you've got to live with them. And, I must admit, I think Aunt Alice has a point. If Colonel Whitfield feels the way you want him to, then he wouldn't give two hoots who your father was. Why should he? It wouldn't stop me. It'd make me think a bit, which is only human, but it wouldn't stop me.'

‘Oh, you don't understand!' she broke out passionately.

Haldean took her arm and steered her into the summer house. ‘Now,' he said, once they had settled themselves on the wooden bench. ‘What is it I don't understand?' He tried very hard to keep the anxiety out of his voice and actually managed a smile. ‘Don't tell me it's nothing. There's something else, isn't there, Marguerite? Something that's been worrying you.' He put his hand under her chin, turned her face towards him and realized she was on the brink of tears. ‘Oh dear. Hang on a mo, I've got a hanky somewhere . . . here we are.' He reached for light-heartedness like a weapon. ‘Now you go ahead and sob into that. It's much better than my shoulder. Besides that, this jacket has many virtues but it's ever so woolly and if it gets wet I smell like a dead sheep. Belle refused to have me in the house the last time I got caught in the rain.' A giggle rose up from amongst the sobs. ‘That's better.' He put a comforting arm around her shoulder. ‘Tell me all, old thing.'

‘I . . . I can't. I feel so ashamed,' she said, into his chest. ‘When I think how nice everyone's been and Aunt Alice and Isabelle and how they try and how I've treated them . . . I just want to go away and never see anyone decent again. I thought they were going to say something about it in the drawing room and I was half-glad to think it would soon be over and I wouldn't have to face them any more. Then they started talking about my father and trying to guess how I feel and they can't
see
I'm not worth the trouble. They don't know what I'm really like. I'm not worth all that effort.'

He tightened his arm round her bare shoulders. The moonlight though the wicker walls of the summer house laid stripes of silver across them both, making her expression difficult to see, but he could feel her trembling like a captured moth. This wasn't shaping up well but he wasn't going to imagine the worst. Not yet. ‘I say, Maggie, old thing, you're not practising to be a nun or a saint are you? I believe they go in for worm-like humility but it's a bit wearing in anyone else.' Now for it. ‘What the dickens is it?'

‘It's . . . it's that horrible man, Boscombe.'

‘Boscombe?' He repeated the name flatly. Boscombe.

‘Yes.' She swallowed and then it all came out in a rush. ‘Somehow, I don't know how, he knew about Richard and how I felt. I got a letter from him in January saying that he knew who I really was. He wanted me to give him some money.' She wriggled away from him. ‘It's no use. I can't tell you.'

Haldean sat for a moment. She was damn well going to tell him if he had to force it out of her. Boscombe . . . Hold on a minute!
Boscombe!
He had wanted money. Maybe it was all right after all.
Boscombe
. . . He reached out his arm to her once more. ‘Come here.' He put a hand in his pocket, drew out the collar-stud box and opened it. Marguerite gasped and sat rigidly. He could feel the tension in her muscles as she gazed at the emerald pendant. ‘You gave this to Boscombe, didn't you?' Marguerite said nothing. ‘You stole Isabelle's necklace and gave it to Boscombe.'

Marguerite covered her face with her hands and burst into renewed sobs. Haldean waited for the storm to die down, relief coursing through him. ‘It's true,' she said eventually. ‘I'm a thief, a common thief. He wanted fifty pounds. I didn't have the money so I sold some of my jewellery and he wrote back, demanding more. I was desperate, Jack. I've . . . I've taken other things, too. I took Aunt Alice's seed pearl and cameo brooch. She thought she'd lost it because the clasp was loose, but I stole it. I took Uncle Philip's cigarette case, as well.'

‘What, his gold one?'

‘Yes.' She glanced at his face and drew her breath in sharply. ‘Please don't look at me like that. Please, Jack. I know I was wrong, but I was so frightened. Boscombe knew all about me and said if I wanted to keep it a secret from Richard, I'd better pay up. It was dreadful. If you can believe it, I'd never thought before that who my father was could make any difference. Maybe I should have ignored the letter or thrown it on the fire. But I couldn't, you see, Jack, I just couldn't, The idea of him writing to Richard was more than I could bear. I meant to pay everyone back, I really did. As soon as I got my money I was going to make it up to them but I know that wouldn't make it right. When Isabelle said you'd had the necklace made for her, it was dreadful. I didn't know it was so precious, but I love Richard, I do, and now I've ruined everything. I wish I was dead.'

‘Oh, glory.' Haldean squeezed her shoulders. So that was it. That was all. ‘You idiot. Why, in heaven's name, didn't you tell anyone?'

‘I couldn't. I just couldn't.' She tried to break away but he kept his arm firmly round her shoulders. ‘I know you hate me for what I've done.'

‘Hate?' His voice was very gentle. ‘No, I don't hate you. Mind you,' he added with the beginnings of a smile, ‘it's not my things which were taken, so it's not up to me to say it's all right, but I doubt if anyone's going to hate you. Count the spoons, perhaps, but not hate you.'

‘Don't,' she said with a watery giggle. ‘I'll have to tell them,' she added in a small voice. ‘I've been wanting to but I couldn't bring myself to do it. And then everyone was so nice to me and I knew how much I owed everyone and that made it worse. It's been horrible.'

‘Blackmail is horrible. Look, I'll tell them if you like. And don't worry. You were right about them being decent sorts. They'll understand. But please, Marguerite, if you ever have something bothering you again, something that's simply too much for you to handle, tell someone you can trust. Uncle Philip, Aunt Alice, me, even. But for God's sake tell us. And cheer up, old thing. Boscombe's dead. It's all over.'

‘I only wish it was.' She hesitated. ‘There's more, you know.'

Haldean felt the hairs on his neck prickle. Like someone revisiting a nightmare, all his fears returned. With a dead weight in his stomach he forced himself to look at her. ‘What is it? Tell me.'

She shrank back from his gaze. ‘At the fête I met Mr Boscombe. I didn't know who he was until he told me. He thanked me for my letters in a nasty, polite sort of way, then said he was afraid that the contents weren't quite enough. I told him I couldn't manage what he had asked as it was. I gave him my wristwatch. It had been a present from Mummy. I told him so and all he did was laugh. I hated that laugh. Then he said I'd have to do a great deal better than that, otherwise he'd
tell my father.
Don't you see, Jack? I didn't at first but he spelt it out for me. My father isn't dead. Mr Boscombe said so.'

Haldean was stunned. ‘Your father's
alive
?'

‘That's what he said, yes.'

‘But . . .' His thoughts were tumbling over each other. ‘Did Boscombe say anything more? Had he seen him?'

‘I don't know. I didn't want to know. I only wanted to get away from him as soon as I could. I hated being near Mr Boscombe. He was horrible.'

‘So didn't you ask him anything? I mean, where does your father live?'

‘I don't know, I tell you, and I don't want to know. It's not my fault he's my father. I don't want to know anything about him. Don't you see? He'll ruin everything between me and Richard. Richard couldn't possibly marry me if my father was alive. What if he turned up? What could I do?'

‘He's hardly likely to turn up, I'd say. He's got . . .' He'd been about to say
the gallows
but changed it just in time. ‘. . . er, a serious charge hanging over him.' That hadn't been a very happy phrase either, but she didn't notice it.

‘What if someone else sees him? It'll all be dragged up again and there'll be a huge fuss and it'll be in all the papers. Richard would hate it.'

If there were awards given out for single-mindedness, Marguerite would scoop the lot. ‘Look.' This had to be sorted out. ‘What did Boscombe actually say? Please remember, Maggie, it's important.'

Her lip trembled but she made an effort. ‘He said – I think this is what he said – that I'd better pay up or he'd tell my father. And he said something like, “You wouldn't like that, would you? He's hardly the father a nice young lady like you should have.” He was so sarcastic and I'm sure he meant it, you know. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't tell anybody, could I?'

‘So you didn't do anything about it?'

She looked at him in bewilderment. ‘No. What could I have done?'

Haldean breathed a huge sigh of relief and pulling her close, kissed the top of her head. ‘Thank God. And so that's all you've got to tell me? Is that really all?'

‘Why?' she asked with a puzzled expression. ‘Isn't that enough? I mean, what else can there be?'

‘I'm so glad,' said Haldean, with real feeling, ‘that you don't know.'

Haldean drew the Spyker into the side of the grass verge under the shelter of the trees, looking doubtfully at the rutted dirt track leading to Colonel Whitfield's stables. Marguerite, urged on by Lady Rivers, had reluctantly decided to tell Whitfield the truth and Haldean had offered to take her in the car.

He was glad he had done. This wasn't going to be easy for her. Tyburn's treachery wasn't an item in the newspapers for Richard Whitfield, a mere footnote to a messy campaign. Whitfield had been wounded and seen the men who had suffered because of that betrayal. Although it would be unfair to blame Tyburn's daughter, it would be very understandable if it told against her. Yes, thought Haldean, despite all his reassurances that the past didn't matter, he knew only too well that it did. He didn't envy Marguerite the interview that lay ahead.