Death at Gallows Green (16 page)

Bradford gave her a sidelong glance. “You did not speak of this to Mama?”

“No, I. . .” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. She had concealed the truth too long. It was best to confess all, without reservation. “I very much fear, Bradford, that I am at fault.”

To her surprise, Bradford threw back his head and laughed—not a very nice laugh, at that. “You!” he exclaimed. “Yes, indeed you
are
at fault, you little goose, grievously at fault. If you had not—”

But Bradford did not finish his sentence. He was interrupted by the butler, Howard, a tall, haughty man of impeccable speech and dress. He bore an envelope on a silver tray.

“A telegram for you, sir,” he said, bowing.

“Thank you, Howard,” Bradford said, and the butler withdrew. Eleanor watched her brother open the envelope and saw his face change, grow even darker than before. Swiftly, angrily, he wadded up the paper, threw it on the fire, and flung himself into an arm chair.

“What is it, Bradford?” Eleanor asked anxiously.

But her brother did not answer her, and after a few moments Eleanor quietly stole from the room, leaving him as she had found him, staring into the fire.

B
radford Marsden felt as if he were poised on the edge of a very high, very steep cliff, with breakers frothing angrily across sharp rocks below, while behind him roared a pack of savage hounds. He could be smashed on the rocks or torn limb from limb. The telegram that had arrived the night before had informed him that Concerto, publicly posted at twenty-five-to-one and privately assessed at two-to-one, had loped last and latest across the finish line. He had exhausted his final fragile hope. Nothing whatever could save him now—unless he could prevail upon his friend Charles.

Bradford got up from the carved oak desk where he had been staring at his accounts ledger and walked to the French doors opening out onto Marsden Manor's lovely south park, with its vista of meadow and field and rich woodland. To the right, in the elaborate latticed garden house, he could see his mother and sister directing the servants in the laying of the tables for the garden party that afternoon. A short distance away, complacently observing the activity that was being conducted in honour of his and his wife's visit, stood Eleanor's stout husband, Ernest Fairley.

At the sight of Mr. Fairley, Bradford's lip curled. One would imagine that the scion of Fairley's Finest Fancy Candies—the well-heeled scion, still quite clearly besotted with love—would be willing to lend a spot of financial assistance to the brother of his dearly beloved, especially if the dearly beloved pleaded prettily. But no. Mr. Ernest Fairley, it seemed, was implacable, even when his wife laid an urgent case before him. He could also quote Shakespeare, and after he had given his no to Eleanor last week to convey to Bradford, he had taken the opportunity of a pause in the dinner table conversation to whisper in his wife's brother's ear a piece of avuncular advice from
King Lear:
“Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lenders' books, and defy the foul fiend.” Mr. Fairley's counsel had been delivered in great sincerity, Bradford believed, but that didn't keep him from wanting to whip the fish off his plate and across the very sincere face of his parsimonious brother-in-law.

The difficulty that Bradford faced, the one he had tried to solve by applying to his brother-in-law, had to do with his mother's emeralds—the emeralds that Eleanor had discovered missing. They were not stolen, of course. They had been placed by Bradford himself on deposit with the Messrs. Attenborough in Chancery Lane in return for the sum of five thousand pounds, which he had used to answer a margin call on stock he owned in the Paramount Horseless Carriage Company. To no avail, however. Paramount had gone irretrievably defunct, taking with it all of Bradford's liquid assets.

Of course, when Bradford purchased the stock, Paramount had seemed to promise a very good return. It had been capitalized the year before, when Mr. Harry Landers, a British entrepreneur, had acquired certain valuable French automotive patents. The company was underwritten by the Bank of England and Wales and the Assurance Trust Corporation, as well as a number of shareholders belonging to the peerage. Bradford's acquaintances at the
Financial News
had been quite bullish about Paramount's potential, for the horseless carriage, they assured him, heralded a very profitable industry which would inaugurate innumerable other industries. A great new era of prosperity was about to dawn upon the land.

There were, however, several spanners in the works. The motor car was vigorously opposed by factions both in the press and in the Parliament: the pro-steam lobby, for instance; and those who believed that the motor car spelt doom to horses; and those fearful of speeding automobiles running down women and children. In response to these fears, Parliament had passed the Red Flag Act, decreeing a speed limit of four miles an hour in open country and two miles an hour in populated areas and requiring a man to walk twenty yards in front of any vehicle with a red flag. Few people cared to drive a vehicle that had to be preceded by someone on foot.

And Harry Landers himself was a spanner of a different sort, a blustering, brassy egoist who could not be trusted. Unfortunately, Bradford had discovered this only after his shares in the Paramount Horseless Carriage Company had become worthless, leaving him with nothing except his stock certificates and the pawn ticket from Attenborough & Attenborough.

And now his mother had become urgent about the damned emeralds, imploring him to restore them by the next day but one, when she was expected to wear them to have her portrait taken. And when he asked her if she thought his father might advance him five thousand pounds to redeem the jewels, her horrified reaction affirmed his own glum perception: that Baron Marsden, president of the Essex Horse Breeders Association, would die before he saw a single Marsden shilling devoted to motor cars.

This was why Bradford had wagered more than he ought on Concerto. And it was in this context that he had begun to think about marriage. The idea was not new to him: He had been brought up to know that he must assure the continuation of the lineage. But for nearly a decade, he had managed to elude the eligible young women thrust upon him by the machinations of anxious mothers, not to mention those of his own mother on his behalf. He had kept his heart free until now, when it seemed that he must bestow it upon an heiress whose land and fortune would allow him to pursue his investments in the motor car industry. Fortunately, one such lived in the neighbourhood.

Of course, it was not her fortune or her estate that rendered Kathryn Ardleigh attractive. It was her person: her intelligence, wit, and courage—and the rich abundance of mahogany hair that made her almost beautiful. Still, the fact that she was an heiress added to her natural attractions and made her nearly irresistible, in spite of the fact that she was an American, and Irish—neither of which were likely to sit well with his parents. But he was confident of bringing them around. Marriage to Miss Ardleigh would not pull him out of his immediate predicament nor obviate the need for continued strict economy with regard to his own funds. But they could live quite nicely on her fortune until he came into the Marsden estate and could do what he liked.

Yes, Miss Ardleigh was the perfect choice. He could only thank Providence for having seen fit to place her so conveniently at hand.

Now, if he could just resolve the problem of those damned emeralds!

C
harles opened the door of Bradford Marsden's study. His friend was standing by the French doors looking out, hands thrust into his pockets.

“May I intrude?” he asked.

Bradford turned from the window. “Ah, Charlie,” he said heartily. “Sit down and solve a problem for me, will you?”

Charles sat down by the fire and put both feet on the fender. “I came to ask you to solve one for me.” He pulled out his pipe. “But let's hear yours first. What is it?”

“What else?” Bradford went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of brandy. “Money.”

Charles wasn't surprised. Lord Marsden had settled an allowance on his eldest son but it almost never went far enough to support Bradford's expensive tastes. From time to time, his friend had applied to him for the funds he needed to get him out of a tight place, and Charles had always been glad to oblige. Without exception, the money had been repaid.

“How can I help?” Charles asked. He took the brandy snifter from Bradford and placed it on the inlaid table at his elbow.

Bradford sat down in a leather chair and put his booted feet up on a gros-point ottoman. “Lend me five thousand pounds. Interest at the current rate, of course.”

Charles raised both eyebrows. It was the largest loan his friend had asked of him. As a younger son, Charles had long ago accepted the fact that his elder brother Robert would inherit the bulk of the Sheridan estate and money—as he had, upon the death of Charles's father several years before. But Charles was not without fortune, for his father had settled a house and an allowance on him, and he had received a sizable legacy from his maternal grandmother. His public status as a second son functioned to keep him single, while his private fortune set him at liberty to enjoy his bachelor existence as an amateur scientist, amateur photographer, and amateur criminologist. Still, he had to live on his income. And five thousand pounds was quite a lot of money.

Bradford's face was grave. “I wouldn't ask you if you weren't the final resort,” he said. “And this is the last request you'll have of me.” He swung his feet to the floor and sat forward in the armchair, his eyes lightening. “I've decided to marry, Charlie. The woman on whom I have settled my choice is well-established. We should be able to do quite well on her income until I come into the baronetcy.”

Charles raised his glass. “I thought I'd never live to see the day! Good for you, Marsden! Who is the lucky lady?”

Bradford stood up. “She is Miss Ardleigh, of Bishop's Keep.”

Charles stared, his thoughts turning around a hollow center that had suddenly opened inside him. Bradford and Miss Ardleigh were to be married! But what about
Ned
and Miss Ardleigh? Had the woman been engaged in some sort of flirtatious game, playing the offer of one suitor against another?

But even as Charles asked himself that question, he answered it. He did not know Kate Ardleigh well, and now was not likely to do so. But he knew, at least, that she was not capable of a duplicitous dealing in hearts. He had not seen Ned Laken since yesterday morning. There had been plenty of time for her to honourably refuse one man and accept the other. She was perfectly within her rights to do so—and wise, too, at least as the world would see it. Ned was a very good man, but Bradford was, or would be, a very rich one.

“I . . . see,” he said. The hollowness within him seemed to echo in his voice, and he cleared his throat. “When will the wedding occur?”

“As soon as is convenient. I may have taken my time to settle my choice, but now that I know my mind, I do not intend to linger. I plan to make the proposal in the next day or two.”

“I see,” Charles said again. So she had not yet committed herself.

“But you may expect the bargain to be struck most expeditiously,” Bradford added. “I have called on the lady once or twice and found her gracious and willing. I know of no other suitors. And of course the match is logical and quite prudent, since our properties adjoin.”

As if from a distance, Charles heard himself ask, “Do you love her?”

“Love her?” Bradford sounded surprised, as well he might. It was not a question that one gentleman would ask another. “I don't know. Haven't given it any thought. I suppose I will, once we are married. People do, don't they? Now, about the loan . . .”

“Consider it done,” Charles said. He covered his feelings by searching in his pockets for tobacco. “I'll obtain a bank draft for the funds immediately.”

Bradford's sigh of relief was almost audible. “Many thanks, old man. You can't think how you have eased my mind.” He stood and went to the window, looking out on the preparations for the garden party that was to take place on the manor grounds that afternoon. “And Mama's, although she doesn't know it yet. I'll need the money tomorrow, if possible, so I can retrieve her bloody emeralds from Attenborough's greedy clutches.”

“Emeralds?” Charles asked. He paused in mid-gesture, his tobacco pouch in his hand.
“You
took Lady Marsden's emeralds?”

“Of course,” Bradford said. “Did you think Mama would carry out such an errand herself?” He turned, frowning. “What do you know of the emeralds, Charlie?”

“Well, I—”

Bradford's face darkened. “You have no need to answer. It was my sister, wasn't it?
She
told you they were gone.” His chuckle was sour. “No sense at all, women. She came to me last night, claiming they had been stolen.”

Charles finished filling his pipe before he spoke. “It was not Eleanor who spoke to me about the matter,” he said. “It was Miss Ardleigh. Eleanor confided to her a fear that Lawrence might have made off with them.”