Home Is the Sailor (27 page)

“I think…” David spoke more to his sister than to Will. “I think that he might give Ronald the chance to sign a confession and flee the country before he takes action. A murderer cannot inherit a title, but to have him seized and bound over by his own family...the scandal would be terrible, and I do not know if Mother would survive the ordeal. His greatest purpose will be to protect her.”

Amelia nodded mutely.

Will edged toward the door, trying to hear what was going on. “Is it safe to leave him in there, alone with your brother? What’s one more murder to—”

A pistol cracked behind the locked door. One shot. The suddenness of it made David jump, but it did not surprise him. “Did Father have a gun?” he asked Amelia.

Her face was white. “Yes. A duelling pistol.”

“I wish I had one,” Will said. “I’ll wager your brother was armed, as well. Why should he balk at one more life?” He moved toward the door as a key turned in the lock, unobtrusively putting himself first in the line of fire.

But, as David expected, it was his father who opened the door, his face an unhealthy shade of red, but set like stone. “Damned disobedient brats!” he said. “I told you to leave!”

“Yes, sir,” David answered without moving.

The old man’s stare bored into his soul, drawing the moment out until David wanted to turn and walk away—away from this house, away from all of it. But he knew he could not leave. Not now. Not ever. And his father knew it, too.

“I’m sorry,” David said.
Sorry I had to show you what Ronald was, sorry Mark is dead, sorry I’m not the heir you wanted. We’re stuck with each other now, like it or not.

“Don’t be,” his father said. “You did your duty.” A spasm of pain crossed his face, and he caught at the doorframe. “Get your sister out of here. Not a sight for—”

He clutched at the air with a low moan, and pitched forward. Will helped David break his fall and lower him to the ground as Amelia screamed, “Papa!” and dropped to her knees.

The Earl was conscious, breathing heavily. He appeared puzzled. Amelia was near tears. “Papa, please, speak to me!”

David heard footsteps coming down the hall. “Will—” But Will had already taken the key out of the office door, locking it again from the hall side. “Thank you! Lia, stay here.” He pushed to his feet and ran toward the footsteps, which proved to belong to the butler, who was followed by one of the maids. “Leland, my father has collapsed. I fear it may be his heart. You must send for the doctor immediately.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

Good man, he didn’t stop to ask unnecessary questions. “Susan—” He thought it was Susan; she nodded, at any rate—”go fetch two of the footmen. My father has suffered some sort of attack and must be taken to his room immediately.”

That attended to, he returned to the crisis. His father was still lying on the floor but was attempting to rise, against Amelia’s objections. She’d loosened his neckcloth; trust her to do the sensible thing! Will was kneeling beside them both, unobtrusively checking the Earl’s pulse.

David dropped to his knees and took his father’s other hand. It was clammy. “Father. We’ve sent for the doctor. You must stay quiet.”

Amelia had regained control of herself. “What shall I do, Davy?”

“Find one of the maids, have her make certain that Father’s bed is ready. Then see to it that no one—absolutely no
one—disturbs Mother until I have had the chance to speak to her.”

“I left Jane with Mother,” Amelia said. “I can tell her to say that she’s to be left alone, on Father’s orders. No one will question that.”

“Yes. Good. Be as quick as you may. If we are not here when you return, go to Father’s room. I’ve sent for servants to carry him to bed.”

“Bed!” his father muttered. “Can’t go to—” He grimaced.

“Lie still, you old fool!” David heard himself snap. “I don’t want to tell my mother she’s lost another son
and
her husband! I’ll see to the rest of it—
trust
me, for once in your life!” He took off his own coat, and put it over his father. “Will—the key?”

Will handed it over without a word. He took it, let himself into the study, and locked the door behind him. The room reeked of gunpowder and blood, the close quarters making the odors more intense than a gundeck after a battle. Ronald sat sprawled in his father’s chair, collapsed upon the desk, a pistol in his hand and his brains all over the back of the chair. There was a letter, unblotted, on the desk before him. And there was a leather sack, heavy when David lifted it. It was full of gold sovereigns.

He picked up the letter.

I, Ronald Milton Archer, confess that I shot my brother Mark in order to take his place as my father’s heir. I am sorry to have brought this shame upon my family. I beg forgiveness in God’s sight.

It was signed. And David could see what had happened as clearly as if he’d been present. The Earl had dictated that letter, holding out the gold and a chance for escape as an inducement—Ronald would never have cared about shaming anyone else. And the prayer for absolution...that, too, would have been his father’s doing. Ronald had written this confession, probably at gunpoint, expecting to be given money and the chance of flight.

And then his father shot him dead.

David was certain of that, for two reasons. First off, the gun in his brother’s lax hand was his father’s duelling pistol. If Ronald had been armed, he’d have held his father off at gunpoint or even shot him, taken the money, and run. But the clincher was that there were no powder burns on Ronald’s face or clothing. The shot had to have come from at least a foot away. As magistrate, of course, the Earl could have seen to it that that any contradictory evidence was suppressed. This was outside the letter of the law, well beyond a magistrate’s authority, but it could broadly be seen as within the spirit of British justice. The murderer had been apprehended… and justice had been done.

Very well. This would do, at least for now. David blotted the letter, stowed it in his coat pocket, and went back out into the hall just in time to meet Susan and two footmen trotting down the hall a makeshift stretcher. Amelia was at their heels.

He drew her and Will aside, out of earshot, as the servants began tending to their fallen lord. “Father arranged the scene to make it look as though Ronald committed suicide. If we can lay that to his gambling problems, rather than Mark’s death, there need never be a whisper of murder. Lia, you go with Father—I’ll tell Leland about Ronald. Do not tell Mother, or anyone else, anything about this for now.”

“Not even Jane?”

“Can you trust her?”

“Absolutely.”

“Very well—but if she’s watching Mother I doubt you’ll have a chance to speak to her in private before we get things settled. Just stay with Father until Dr. Fiske arrives. If the doctor should ask you what happened, try to let Father explain, if he’s able, so we will have some notion of his intentions. Tell Fiske that you saw Father collapse, I told you Ronald was shot...try to seem confused.”

She attempted a smile. “I shan’t have to try.”

 
He thought back to the mess in the study. “One other thing—send Susan to Mother’s room, tell her to send Kirby down here. And have Kirby bring a blanket, sponge, and a basin of water.”

He took a moment to take his father’s hand again, as the footmen settled him onto the stretcher. “Father? I’ve been in the study, and I understand what happened. Everything. I shall attend to it. Do you understand?”

The Earl’s head lolled to one side; he grimaced. “Good boy. Sorry...sorry I misjudged you. I’m not usually so wrong!”

David could have dealt with anger; an apology from the man who never apologized was more than he could bear. Fighting back tears, he bent and kissed his father’s forehead. “Stay with us, you stubborn old mule!”

He took Will into the study, locking the door behind them, and explained the situation. Will agreed that the looming gambling scandal ought to be sufficient cause for suicide. “In fact, Davy, you might say you had spoken to him about it. I have the letter from Sir Percy as evidence, should anyone ask.”

“Dr. Fiske and my father are old friends. If he lives, I think he may tell the doctor at least some of the truth—if he has not guessed it himself. If Father dies…” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as the weight of that possibility pressed down on him. “If he does, we’ll have to make the best of it. Fiske is no fool—it wouldn’t surprise me if he guesses what’s happened. If he suspects that Ronald had something to do with Virginia’s death, this—” he gestured at the desk— “should settle the matter. But we must muddle the trail. A man about to shoot himself would not have needed money.”

He picked up the sack of coins and hid it away at the back of a bottom drawer, closed the ink-bottle, wiped the pen dry and put it in its holder. The proximity of Ronald’s motionless body made his skin crawl; he had an uneasy sense that his brother would suddenly rear back, the lax fingers stiffen into reaching claws…he gritted his teeth and pushed away the fanciful notions, forcing his own reluctant hands to perform the actions.

Will watched solemnly. “What can I do to help?”

Grateful for the distraction, David said, “Will, look at this tableau. Do you see anything to suggest that this might have been anything other than self-slaughter?”

“Only the powder burns. The lack of them, I should say.”

“Yes—but you notice that because we were looking for them earlier. There’s nothing we can do about that now.”

Will glanced at the note. “This is clear evidence of suicide. Do you mean to destroy it?”

“No. My father had something in mind, and we might need it as evidence, but it would be better if we can avoid the mention of murder…” He considered the scene for a long moment, then decided that he was only making things worse. “Will, I am trying too hard to be clever. I think it’s best to simply clean this room. In fact, I’m going to have it as tidy as possible before the doctor arrives.”

Will bit his lip, then nodded. “Yes. Why should you not? To leave things as they are might suggest that you found something amiss—that you expected official inquiry. You have the note, that surely explains everything. Why would you
not
restore order?”

His words lifted a weight from David’s conscience. “Thank you. I’ve sent for Kirby because I need someone trustworthy to help with this, but I don’t mean to say anything in her presence that she could not repeat, under oath, to a coroner. And in any case, we could hardly keep things as they are until an inquest is called. That will be a day or two, at least.”

Will nodded, and started at a tap on the door behind him. David turned the key and held it open just wide enough to see that his mother’s maid had followed instructions to the letter. “Thank you for coming, Kirby. Did my sister explain what had happened?”

“No, sir, only that there’d been a terrible accident, and your father’s been taken ill.”

“It’s worse than that, I’m afraid. Far worse. I sent for you because I know you will do everything possible to help me and protect my mother.”

“Of course, Master David.”

He had to admire the way she was pointedly
not
trying to peer past him. “There has been another tragedy. My brother Ronald is dead—”

Kirby’s hand flew to her mouth. “No! Oh, my poor lady!”

“—and something about his death distressed my father so very badly that he fell to the ground before our eyes. He is resting in his room now, and we have sent for the doctor. I know that it is beneath your position to help with housework—I cannot in all fairness
require
it of you—but I do ask you to help me make my brother’s body presentable for the doctor. There will be gossip in the servants’ hall, I know—”

She set her jaw. “Not if
I
have ought to say about it!”

“Exactly. I knew we could depend on you. If you would pass me that blanket, Captain Marshall and I will arrange things to spare you as much distress as possible.”

She handed it over, two blankets, in fact, and, for some reason, a roll of bandage. “Is—is there much blood, sir?” she asked.

He was momentarily taken aback. “On the desk...and on the chair. Why do you ask?”

“Well, it is
not
my duty to deal with such things, sir, in the ordinary way, but since Lady Virginia’s accident some of the younger maids are nervy. If you mean to keep this as quiet as may be, I had better fetch Mr. Leland. Between the two of us, we can do what needs to be done.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I think that would be best.” He relieved her of the sponge and basin, and locked the door again. “I tremble to think what would become of this family without our people,” he said.

“She reminds me of Barrow,” Will said. “Where would either of us have been without him to teach us the ropes? Davy, I—I know it is little enough, but would you like me to shift the body?”

“It’ll take both of us,” David said grimly.

It did, and he was glad of the second blanket, though they found the simplest thing to do was to roll the chair away from the desk and over to one side, and simply slide the body out of it. David avoided looking at his brother’s face, but even so it was a relief to finally pull the blanket over that bloody ruin.

He stood, and his eyes met Will’s. And then the reality of his situation hit him full force. There would be no little house in London, or Portsmouth, or anywhere else. He was no longer a younger son with a modest competence, free to live where and as he chose. He was Viscount Archer now, the heir of Grenbrook, a man with responsibilities he had not chosen and did not want. He felt a little numb.