Michael Cox (53 page)

34

Retribution

I
The Triumvirate Reconvenes

I
RETURNED
to my room, falling on the bed in a state of utter desperation, incapable of conceiving a single intelligible thought.
The Great Task had failed. Perseus was not the legitimate heir after all, whilst Mr Randolph, the true heir, was married to another. The exposure of Emily’s part both in the murders of Mrs Kraus and of her father would serve the cause of Justice; but how would it now serve my own purposes, or make restitution for my father’s betrayal? Mr Randolph, with the erstwhile ‘Mrs Battersby’ as his consort, would succeed his mother, and I would be left with nothing. How could I tell Madame that my father’s great scheme had crumbled to dust?
I sat down at my desk and tried to compose a letter to send to the Avenue d’Uhrich, but the words would not come. After several attempts, I gave up, throwing myself again on my bed in a fit of pique and rage, and hammering at the pillow until the hot tears ceased at last.
As I lay there, watching the sun-cast shadows dance about the ceiling, the striking of the clocks for the hour of eleven reminded me of my appointment with Mr Wraxall, for which I was now half an hour late.
I arrived at North Lodge barely knowing where I was, so stupefied and bewildered was my mental state.
‘My dear girl!’ cried Mr Wraxall, on opening the door. ‘What on earth is the matter?’
I heard his words, but nothing more. When I next saw the barrister’s domed head and anxious eyes, I was lying on the sofa in his sitting-room, covered with a blanket, a cloth soaked in cold water laid across my forehead.
‘Thank goodness!’ said Mr Wraxall, as I opened my eyes and looked round the room, which, to my surprise, instead of the usual wilderness of papers, now had an air of tidiness and order about it.
‘You fainted, my dear, but are now back with us. I trust you’re feeling a little better now? Very good. And look – here’s Inspector Gully, just in time as always.’
The young detective, who had been walking in the garden, having arrived early at North Lodge, pulled a stool up to the sofa, and began to add his concerned enquiries to those of Mr Wraxall. After they had satisfied themselves that I was sufficiently restored to proceed with business, the inspector produced his note-book, and then looked at Mr Wraxall, who gave a little nod to signal that he might inaugurate the second meeting of our investigating triumvirate.
‘Well now, Miss Gorst,’ the inspector began, ‘I wish to report, firstly and principally, on a most notable development. Mr W has already been informed, but he wished me to tell you of it in person.’
Having given us a tremendously consequential look, he briefly consulted his note-book, and then cleared his throat.
‘Two days ago, a body – a man’s body – was taken from the Regent’s Canal. It had suffered injuries about the head before being thrown into the water. The victim was quickly identified, from certain items still on his person, as being Mr Armitage Vyse, barrister, of Old Square, Lincoln’s Inn, and Regent’s Park Terrace.’
‘Mr Vyse!’
My horrified exclamation was as spontaneous as this extraordinary piece of intelligence had been unanticipated. Mr Vyse, murdered! The wicked wolf, dead!
‘But who can have done this?’ I asked, looking with shocked eagerness, first at the inspector, then at Mr Wraxall.
‘We thought at first that it must have been Yapp’s work,’ replied the inspector, ‘but my dear wife’s opinion, with which I entirely concur, is that it was Conrad Kraus. There, you see!’
He reached down and began to scratch inside his left boot.
‘A man answering Conrad’s description,’ he resumed, after paying the same attention to his right foot, ‘had been observed, on several occasions, loitering near Mr Vyse’s private residence in Regent’s Park Terrace. Furthermore, Conrad hasn’t returned to his lodgings for some days now, and it seems probable – almost certain, indeed – that he’s skipped London altogether, perhaps for good.
‘The victim himself had been on the point of leaving the country – his bags and papers were all in readiness. According to the woman who attended him, he’d taken an early supper, and then gone out for a stroll, to pass half an hour until a cab was called to take him to the station hotel, where he’d intended to stay the night before taking the first tidal-train the next morning. But he never returned to the house. We’d put a watch on him, but on that particular night the constable assigned to the job was late arriving at his post, and so didn’t see him leave.’
Conrad, simple-minded Conrad. It did not seem to me to be a far-fetched conclusion. I could easily imagine the poor fellow, lacking all care and companionship, abandoned now for the rest of his days in an unfeeling world, driven at last to desperate action by the gnawing contemplation of what the man with the stick had caused to be done to the mother on whom he had depended for so long; and continuing to grieve (the word seemed not at all inappropriate) for the loss of the letter that had led directly to her death – that infinitely precious, violet-scented letter, which had meant so much to him, but which, like his devoted parent, he would never see again.
I asked whether Lady Tansor had been informed of Mr Vyse’s death.
‘Not by us,’ replied the inspector; ‘although the newspapers will carry their main notices today.’
I knew only too well that the news would deal Emily a most severe blow. Despite her aversion to Mr Vyse, and her resistance to his attempts to force her into marriage, he had been a party to her secrets, and I had no doubt that she had come to depend on him as her only protector from the storm that had been slowly, but relentlessly, gathering around her. Now, although he had been driven only by ruthless self-interest, she had no one to defend her; and the storm was about to break in earnest.
‘Whilst its manner must of course be deplored,’ observed Mr Wraxall, reflectively, ‘Justice, although of the roughest sort, has been done.’
He sighed.
‘I regret very much that Mr Armitage Vyse has escaped answering for his crimes in a court of law,’ he went on. ‘I confess that I would once have relished the opportunity of questioning that gentleman under oath. I believe it would have been one of the most interesting cross-examinations of my career.’
‘And now,’ said Inspector Gully, turning over another page in his note-book, ‘a word, briefly, concerning Arthur Digges, who has now been questioned concerning his late employer.
‘He was recently dismissed, in a summary manner, from Vyse’s employment, without receiving the compensation for his services he thought he considered was due to him. Like Yapp, he has now turned against his former master. We don’t suspect him of any direct involvement in the Kraus business; but – as you know, Mr W – he’s already begun to give us a deal of corroborating evidence, and should prove a most useful witness.’
As I brought to mind the unsettling memory of Digges’s pursuit of me, Mr Wraxall, sitting back in his chair, tented fingers to his lips, was giving me a most curious look. I then realized, of course, that he must know from the inspector’s interrogation of Digges that I had gone to Billiter Street, to speak to Mr Lazarus. But did he also know why?
‘Third, and lastly,’ Mr Gully was now saying, ‘in the matter of Lady Tansor—’
‘Is she taken, then?’ I interrupted.
The inspector shook his head.
‘Not yet; but I have officers arriving in Easton this evening. We propose to call on her Ladyship tomorrow morning.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Nine o’clock – sharp,’ said Inspector Gully, snapping his note-book shut.
Nine o’clock – sharp
. The same emphatic qualification that Emily herself had used in order to impress upon me the need to attend her promptly on my first day at Evenwood. The memories of that day flooded over me – my first explorations of the great house and its treasures; my meetings with Perseus and Mr Randolph; dressing Emily’s hair for the first time, and seeing the silver locket containing the hair of the murdered Phoebus Daunt. It seemed so long ago, although it had been but a few short months.
Tomorrow. At nine o’clock,
sharp
. They would come for her.

OUR CONVERSATION CONTINUED until it was time for Inspector Gully to return to Easton.
‘Well, my dear,’ said Mr Wraxall when he had gone, ‘it seems as if one of our triumvirate’s aims, at least, has now been achieved. Lady Tansor will answer for her part in the murder of Mrs Kraus in a court of law.’
He sighed, and shook his head.
‘It will bring terrible consequences for the family – and especially, of course, for Mr Perseus Duport. He is strong, and proud; but it is because of those very qualities that I greatly fear for the effect on him of having the true circumstances of his birth revealed to the world. It will go hard with him, that’s certain. He is not likeable, I admit; but he would have made an admirable possessor of the inheritance that he always believed was his by right of birth. And then the irony of his brother’s having been the legitimate heir all along! That will be a most exquisite twist of the knife.’
He gave another sigh. I looked away, feeling tears beginning to form.
‘Is anything wrong, my dear?’ he asked.
Recovering myself, I thanked him for his concern, but assured him that I was quite well, although it was very far from the truth.
‘I could have wished, though,’ he resumed, ‘that we might have been able to congratulate ourselves on making similar progress with regard to the other matter.’
‘The other matter?’ I asked.
‘Concerning the death of Mr Paul Carteret.’
Reaching into my pocket, I drew out my note-book, taking from it a sheet of paper on which was transcribed the letter from Phoebus Daunt to Emily that I had found in the cupboard behind the portrait of Anthony Duport.
‘Perhaps this may help you,’ I said, handing him the paper. He took it from me, read it in silence, and then, with my assent, placed it in his pocket-book.
‘My dear girl,’ he said; and as he spoke, I saw that there were tears in his eyes, although he quickly brushed them away. ‘What a marvel you are!’ he went on, as he walked over to the window, remaining there, with his back towards me, for several minutes as he looked out towards the line of woods where Mr Paul Carteret had met his death.
‘Dry bones! Dry bones!’ I heard him say quietly to himself. Then, to me:
‘I must talk this over with Gully. It’s curious, though. I had always presumed that it must have been Daunt who instigated the attack on poor Carteret; but it now seems that it was all the idea of Lady Tansor. Daunt merely provided the means – I guess the initial ‘P—’ to refer to Josiah Pluckrose, a known criminal associate of Daunt’s, and a most dangerous and unprincipled character. Her own father! What wickedness!’
He shook his head in disbelief.
‘And there are more letters, you say, which you have not yet been able to examine? Perhaps – no, it’s too much to ask.’
‘You wish me to bring you the others?’ I asked.
‘Do you think you can, without discovery? It may, of course, already be too late – they may have been destroyed.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘They are too precious to her, and I have no doubt that she continues to believe that no one will find them.’
So it was agreed that I would try to remove the letters that evening, and put them into Mr Wraxall’s hands at the earliest opportunity.
‘If only my dear old uncle were here today!’ sighed Mr Wraxall. ‘How he would rejoice to know that he’d been right all along. It was the succession, as we thought. All done to maintain Phoebus Daunt and Miss Carteret in clover. But now, my dear, we must get you home.’
Patting my hand, in his comfortably avuncular manner, he then went to the door to call for John Wapshott to bring the trap round to the front gate.
Mr Wraxall saw me into the trap and tucked the rug over my knees.
‘Will you be there – tomorrow, at nine o’clock –
sharp
?’ I asked, although I instantly regretted my levity, for in truth I felt sick at the thought of what lay ahead.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I have played no official role in the business; and it would perhaps be a little – inappropriate – for me to be present. I shall remain here at North Lodge, and await a report of the proceedings from Gully. Perhaps you ought to join me?’
I shook my head.
‘I cannot. She will expect me to be on hand to attend her.’
‘Of course,’ said Mr Wraxall. ‘Of course. Well, we shall see each other soon, I hope, when Gully has done his work. If you’re ready, John.’
As John Wapshott flicked his whip and the trap pulled away, bumping down the curving carriage-road towards the great house, I heard Mr Wraxall call out to me.
‘Good-bye, Miss Esperanza Gorst.’

II
A Knock at the Door

I DID NOT go down to dinner that evening. How could I have done? To have sat between my dear lost Perseus and his brother, in the company of their doomed mother, making polite conversation after what had so lately passed between us! It was too appalling to contemplate; and so I pleaded indisposition, which was true enough, and rang down for a bowl of thin soup and some cold potatoes (to which I have always been exceedingly partial) to be sent up to my room.
My supper was brought in by Barrington. He seemed at first, as he noiselessly crossed the room, tray in hand, to be his usual uncommunicative self; but as he approached, I saw that he was looking at me with a curiously intent expression, far different from his customary blankness.
‘May I ask whether you are feeling ill, miss?’ he asked, in a soft, low voice, as he laid the tray down. ‘You look rather pale, if I may say so.’
His concern puzzled me, for he was usually a man of the fewest possible words – indeed, the most habitually uncommunicative man I have ever known. We had hardly exchanged a word since I had come to Evenwood; and he had never before shown any degree of interest in my well-being.
I assured him that I was feeling quite well. He bowed, and made to leave; but at the door he turned and said:
‘Will you need anything else tonight, miss? Please to ring immediately if you do.’
I said that I required nothing more; whereupon he made me another bow, and left me sitting disconsolately before the window, absently consuming my frugal dinner.
Fatigued and depressed though I was, there remained a task I must perform, while the opportunity presented itself, before giving myself up to sleep. Taking a small travelling bag from my wardrobe, I went downstairs to Emily’s apartments, and straight to the portrait of Anthony Duport.
Everything was as I had first found it. I quickly removed the six bundles of letters and placed them in the bag I had brought, leaving only the unsettling photograph of Phoebus Daunt behind in the dark recess.
Back upstairs, at a little before ten o’clock, as I was writing up my Book of Secrets and steeling myself to make another attempt at writing to Madame, there came another knock at my door and, to my astonishment, Emily entered.
Her unannounced presence, and the strained, distracted expression she wore, instantly roused anxious speculation within me. Had she discovered that the letters had been taken?
‘Alice, dear,’ she said, with a strangely forced smile, followed by a soft kiss on the cheek. ‘How are you? Both Perseus and Randolph were asking after you at dinner. Are you feeling better?’
‘A little – thank you.’
As she drew away, I saw her glance down to where my Book of Secrets, which I had not had time to conceal, still lay open on the table; but she made no remark as she turned and walked over to the bed. She sat down and patted the counterpane, to indicate that she wished me to come and sit beside her.
‘Is anything the matter?’ I asked, my anxiety mounting that she was about to confront me about the missing letters; but I need not have worried.
‘I don’t know,’ came the hesitant reply. ‘That is to say, I don’t know what it means – or may mean – for me.’
She was now staring down at the floor, her body swaying slowly back and forth.
‘Dearest Emily,’ I said soothingly, my fears now subsiding. ‘You must speak plainly, if I’m to help you.’
‘Oh!’ she cried, as if she had at that moment awoken from some absorbing reverie. ‘Didn’t I say? How stupid of me! Mr Donald Orr has telegraphed to say that Mr Vyse is dead.’
She gave a grim little laugh.
‘Someone has killed him, and thrown his body into the Regent’s Canal. There! What do you think of that?’
‘This is terrible news,’ said I, affecting the greatest shock and surprise, ‘although you were not fond of Mr Vyse, I think.’
‘No,’ she replied, staring down once more at the floor. ‘Not fond in the least; but I did not wish him dead. I never wished that. He was ever a true friend to Phoebus, and defended his memory staunchly against those who tried to besmirch it; and for that I must always be grateful.’
She had now turned her face towards me. The ravages of recent events were only too clear. Her deteriorating health also showed in every feature, making her seem suddenly old beyond her years, and weak beyond recovery, all her former strength quite shrivelled away.
‘Oh, Alice,’ she said, in a most pitiful whisper. ‘I am so afraid. What shall I do?’
‘Afraid?’ I asked. ‘What should you be afraid of?’
She shook her head, and then turned away again, her thoughts seemingly imprisoned in some dark and silent place of terror and despair, the living hell that she had made for herself, and from which there was now no escape.
‘Can’t you tell me?’ I urged, feeling my power over her, but curiously taking little satisfaction in it.
Again she merely shook her head; but then, more brightly, she suddenly looked up and smiled.
‘Will you brush my hair, the way you used to do?’ she asked. ‘Allardyce always pulls so, but you have such a gentle touch. Will you do that for me, dear?’
I went to fetch my brush, and began unpicking the long, black tresses until they fell about her shoulders and back.
Through the half-open window came the distant hooting of an owl, and the soft rush of a night breeze. I began to brush, with long sweeping strokes, as she sat, eyes closed, hands crossed in her lap.
At length, she opened her eyes, and looked me straight in the face. I returned her unflinching gaze, and for an instant it was as if we were locked in an unspoken contest of wills, all pretence suddenly stripped away, each knowing the other’s secret self. But the moment passed, as suddenly as it had come; she gave me a feeble smile, reached out, and then ran her fingers through my hair, saying that she was glad I was feeling better, and that she now wished to retire.
‘Let me come down with you,’ I urged. ‘You’re not well.’
‘Oh, but I’m perfectly well,’ she replied, almost merrily. ‘But, if you insist…’
Back in her apartments, she called for Allardyce to undress her and help her to bed. When the maid had been dismissed, I sat with Emily, holding her hand. We did not speak.
She lay with her eyes closed, although still awake. After a while, she opened them, looked down, and whispered: ‘Such beautiful hands! They were the first things I noticed about you.’
She was smiling to herself, and softly stroking my palm with her long finger-nails, exactly the way Madame had used to do, whenever I awoke from one of my nightmares. I wanted to pull away, but found that I could not; and so we sat for some moments, in silent intimacy.
Then, the clocks sounding the half-hour, I gently pulled my hand away from hers and reached out to brush away a strand of hair from her damp forehead.
‘
Esperanza
,’ she intoned quietly. ‘It means “Hope”, does it not? Your parents named you well, for you must have been their hope indeed. Do you know, dear, the more I say the name, the more I like it. I wish now that I hadn’t insisted on calling you “Alice”. But there – it’s too late now. It’s all too late.’
‘I’ll leave you now,’ I said. ‘Shall I bring you your drops?’
‘My drops?’ she exclaimed, in sudden agitation. ‘No, no, not tonight. On no account. No need for drops tonight.’