Black Gold (26 page)

That didn't mean much, thought Saint-Martin. All the suspects he could imagine, including Jeffery, were right-handed.

“You've searched the body, I presume,” said Burton, turning to the doctor.

“That we did. And found nothing of great value—only a few coins and small bills of exchange. He was carrying a little leather pouch containing a flint, black powder, and a half-dozen balls for a small caliber weapon.”

“He was known to be armed,” Saint-Martin interjected. “Last night at Combe Park, he had threatened Jeffery, the black footman, with a small pistol. We haven't found it in the tennis hall. Perhaps it fell from his body while he was tumbling about in the river.”

“I don't think so,” said the doctor. “A holster with a strap to hold the weapon is sewn into his vest at the small of his back. If the pistol had been in the holster, it would not have fallen out.”

“Roach's killer must have taken it,” said Saint-Martin. “And it's presumably still loaded. Roach didn't have an opportunity to fire it.”

“Another indication that he was surprised,” Burton added, then addressed the doctor. “You may remove the body. We're finished here. Would you write an official report for the record?”

It was ready in a few minutes. With the report in his hand, the Bow Street officer turned to Saint-Martin. “I'm off to the mayor. When he's read this, he'll surely agree I have a murder to investigate.”

***

As Anne and Charlie entered the servants' hall, Mr. Cope the steward approached them, breathless with excitement. “Have you heard? In the market they say Jack Roach's body has been fished from the Avon. The whole town is buzzing.”

To Anne this news came as no surprise. She already knew he had disappeared and was presumed to have been killed. Now she was curious how certain other persons would react. She and the boy waited just inside the door. They were supposed to meet Mr. Critchley and William at noon for a meal and French conversation.

A few minutes later, the two men walked into the hall, visibly agitated. The steward rushed up to them. “They've found Roach's body….”

Critchley cut him off brusquely. “In the river. Yes, I know.”

The steward stared blankly at the tutor, then with a sniff recovered his dignity and left the room.

Anne stepped forward, clearing her throat. “Would you have any idea how he died?”

Critchley jumped a step, startled apparently by her sudden, unexpected question. “How in God's name would I know,” he exclaimed testily. He glanced about the hall, then looked sharply at Anne. “Why isn't our food ready?”

“It will come in a few minutes, I suppose.” She often had to rebuff his attempts to put her down as an inferior servant. She led the way to a table set near the windows looking out over the park. A soft northern light bathed a vase of daffodils that served as a center piece. The group of four took their places. A servant asked what they wished to drink and left the room.

Several months ago, Sir Harry had decided to provide training in French and good manners for William with a mind to eventually sending him abroad on a grand tour of Europe's art and antiquities. Mr. Critchley would presumably accompany him as tutor and guardian.

At Lady Margaret's insistence, little Charlie and his tutors, first Mary Campbell and then Anne, had been included in the program. Anne had told Charlie to pay close attention to Mr. Critchley's speech and his gestures, for he spoke more clearly and distinctly than anyone else in the house. But he wasn't to let the tutor catch him at it, she had added.

When Anne had met Critchley previously, she found him unpleasant company—too much given to cynical asides and a sardonic grin. At last Friday's meal, to her surprise, he had shown he knew how to behave at the table and had spoken excellent French. Despite her feelings about him, she had listened with interest. He appeared to know a great deal of history, literature, and art. His comments were often trenchant and witty.

At her prompting, he had spoken readily about himself. Years ago, he had accompanied young gentlemen to the continent. Fluent in Italian as well as French, he preferred Italy to any other country in the world.

“If fortune were ever to favor me with money and opportunity,” he had said in full round tones, “I would live under Naples' sunny skies, gazing at its magnificent bay, studying its Greek and Roman antiquities. And, I would yield gladly to the charms of its dark-eyed, buxom young women.”

Anne had detected in his voice a note of anticipation, as if Italy weren't entirely out of reach.

Critchley rapped on the table, interrupting Anne's recollections. “Mademoiselle Cartier!” He glared at her. “Let us begin.” No doubt about it, she thought, Critchley's manner had changed today. She stared at him across the table. Anxiety creased his brow. He wrung his hands while he spoke. The discovery of Roach's body must have troubled him. A likely suspect, she concluded.

He appeared to sense what she was thinking. His head drew back as if he dared her to accuse him. Anne refused to blink. He turned to William for support. The young man frowned, apparently resenting the request. Did he bear Critchley a grudge? Anne wondered.

Conversation in French proved difficult and soon flagged. When it came to a halt, Critchley took a book from his bag and glanced at Anne. “Mr. Roach's atrocious death has dampened our spirits. While we wait to be served, I shall read in French some familiar passages from the
Fables
by Jean de La Fontaine.”

Anne saw no reason to challenge his choice. A reading from the
Fables
would benefit Charlie more than the French conversation he could hardly understand. He already knew many of the stories in English translation and enjoyed reciting bits of them to his mother. At Anne's suggestion, Critchley chose “The Pumpkin and the Acorn,” one of the few fables Charlie also knew in French.

With a flourish of throat clearing, Critchley opened the book and commenced. It was a simple tale. A rustic simpleton thought his Creator had made a foolish mistake, fitting the huge pumpkin to a low slender vine and the tiny acorn to a great tall oak tree. Then one day the man fell asleep under such an oak. An acorn dropped precisely on his nose, stinging him painfully and causing blood to flow. Good God, the man cried, what if this acorn had been a pumpkin! He left the oak tree and went his way, praising God who knew His business after all.

Anne sat quietly, intrigued by a change in Critchley's appearance. As he read, his voice grew lively and resonant, teasing nuances out of the rhymed verses. His face brightened and, for the moment, shed the bitterness that otherwise corroded his spirit.

Almost unawares, Anne was drawn into the tale. Its moral seemed to touch upon her own recent experiences. The ways of Providence
were
truly wondrous. Jack Roach was dead, killed most likely by someone he had wronged. A fitting end. This also closed a distressful chapter in her own life. Her spirit still bore the scars from his assault over a year ago. He had walked away from his crime with impunity and had continued to threaten her. But no more. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Distracted by her sigh, Critchley looked up from the book. She gave a little shrug of apology. He stared at her malevolently, head bent to one side, as if about to question her, then said nothing. She wondered what had come of Roach's plan to gather evidence against Lady Margaret? Had Critchley inherited it? Anne felt uneasy, but for Charlie's sake she tried not to show it.

The servant brought them a lamb stew, with ale for the two men, cider for Anne and Charlie. The meal was mercifully brief. William slouched in his chair and played with his food, paying little attention to Critchley's admonitions. Between the stew and the dessert, a honey cake, Critchley attempted to read again. William stared sullenly out the window, finger-tapping a rhythm on the table. Exasperated, perhaps intimidated by his pupil, the tutor had had enough. He slammed the book shut, declared the meal over without the dessert, and left the hall.

Anne and Charlie exchanged bewildered glances, then retreated to her room where they spoke about the fables for a few minutes. He had watched Critchley's lips like a hawk. Though he hadn't been able to decipher each and every word, he caught the gist of the stories and could retell them to Anne in his own original way.

Preoccupied by Critchley's strange behavior at the meal, she had to struggle to pay attention to Charlie. It dawned on her that, after all, Critchley had higher aspirations than to tutor spoiled, ungrateful William. He dreamed of a life of leisure in Italy! She sensed that his dry, sour appearance concealed roiling envy, resentment, anger, hunger for sensual pleasure. What desperate steps might he be willing to take in order to break loose from the bonds of his present dismal existence?

***

Anne sat alone in her room. Charlie had left with reading assignments for the afternoon. She felt pensive and restless. Critchley was still too much on her mind. What had happened in his youth to warp his character so badly? Learned, well-spoken, he obviously came from a cultivated family. She had heard his father had been vicar of a church near Oxford.

She walked to the open window and leaned out. The morning mist had lifted hours ago. A warm bright sun stood high in the sky. A perfect time to walk in the park and forget about Critchley. At least for the moment. Perhaps Paul…

A knock on the door startled her. She sighed. Charlie again with a question. Something that could probably wait. The boy was lonely, sought every opportunity to be with her. He needed deaf playmates his own age, but Lady Margaret was too distracted to make the arrangements. Anne squared her shoulders. She'd do what she could for him.

She pulled the door open and gave out a little cry of pleasure.

Paul stood there, unsmiling. “Roach's body's been found. In the river. Georges and I identified it at the hospital.”

“Yes, I've heard.” She drew him into the room while he spoke of the medical examination.

“Let's walk in the park,” she said. “I need fresh air. You can tell me more about Roach.”

In a few minutes she was ready. They left the house and walked down a steep winding path to a lovely ornamental covered bridge. Like an ancient temple, its roof was supported by rows of Ionic columns. A stream, swollen by the recent rain, cascaded beneath the bridge into a fishpond below, where a pair of swans glided gracefully.

Anne and Paul leaned side by side on the bridge's stone balustrade, studying their distorted reflection in the pond's agitated surface. He told her about Roach's papers. “Now we know how Mary Campbell died, or more precisely, how it appeared to Roach.” He summed up for her what he had learned.

A feeling of sadness swept over her. “This strengthens my belief that it wasn't an accident.” She lifted her face to the sky and cursed the heartless cruelty that cut the young woman's life short. Anne would write immediately to Mr. Braidwood. Mary's parents also needed to know, even though it would pain them.

Paul must have sensed her mood for he put a hand gently on her shoulder. When she had quieted herself, she asked what else he had learned. He then mentioned Critchley's fabrications about Harriet. Even though Anne discounted the lurid parts, Critchley's account distressed her. Harriet appeared caught in a compromising relationship with Sir Harry.

Paul and Anne walked back to the house at a leisurely pace. The early afternoon sun warmed their faces. Spring was bursting out around them. Thick clusters of daffodils dotted the open green upward slope. A soft fresh breeze carried the scents of spring blossoms from the adjacent woods.

As they neared the entrance to the building, he turned to her. “Tea in my rooms? I have something you probably should look at.”

Her curiosity aroused, she agreed, then began to feel apprehensive. This was the first time he had asked her to visit him. She judged from the earnest tone of his voice that his purpose was not romantic. As they walked through the building and up the stairs, he had little to say. His face was taut, his smile strained.

His parlor was a bright, sunny room facing south. He called a servant who served tea at a table by the fireplace and then withdrew. Paul reached into his valise on a nearby chair and pulled out several sheets of paper. “From Roach's apartment,” he said. “Critchley's crude fantasies about you and Jeffery. Burton agreed I should have them.” He hesitated, uncertain. “I'm sorry, they may hurt. Do you want to read them?” He offered her the sheets.

Though her hand trembled, she took them and began reading. She soon gasped in disbelief, and finally thrust the sheets back to Paul. For a few moments at a loss for words, she wrestled with Critchley's malice. Then, with an exasperated sigh, she spluttered, “The man is contemptible!”

She breathed deeply, fighting back her anger. Finally, she calmed down enough to speak. “As I told you earlier, I had gone to the attic that morning to find toys for Charlie. In the room over the chancel I stumbled upon Jeffery asleep….”

Paul broke in, waving his hands. “You don't have to explain, Anne. Scandalous tales like Critchley's are best ignored, otherwise they may gain credence.”

“But I must explain! You've raised the problem, Paul, and it won't go away—at least not from my mind.” And, it will linger, perhaps fester in his, she thought. “You should hear me out.”

He fell silent. A pained, stubborn look came over his face.

She went on to describe Jeffery in the attic learning to read, his panic when discovered, Critchley coming up the stairs looking for her and her quick reaction. “I honestly don't understand why he invented this horrid tale.”

Paul looked at her as if he could guess the reason. She rose to her feet, shocked into a new awareness. He, like Critchley, had sensed a certain sympathetic understanding between her and the footman. Critchley had grossly distorted it into a sexual coupling.