Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (34 page)

Taken aback, Harry said, "You had the impression then, that my
father had visited Sanguinet Towers on
several
occasions?"

Cootesby answered reflectively, "Yes. At least, Cobb said—no,
begad! I am quite sure of it, for Sir Colin knew his way about the
place, and it is a regular rabbit warren!"

"I'll be damned…" muttered Harry.

"We were treated royally," Cootesby went on. "Sanguinet was, I
now comprehend, in an expansive mood, for I've since seen him in a far
different light. However, the house is spectacular, the crown
collection truly fascinating, and the chef—superb! We enjoyed a good
game after dinner—for a time. Then the wine began to flow rather too
freely, I thought, and the stakes climbed higher and higher. Your
father…" He shot a worried look at Harry's drawn, intense face, "—was
drinking heavily. Schofield urged him to refrain and when he refused,
became more and more troubled. At length, Barney himself withdrew but
was unable to induce your father to do so."

It was all wrong, thought Harry angrily. No matter what
Cootesby, or anyone, said, it simply was not Colin Redmond! "I assume
Sanguinet persuaded my father to continue?" he grated.

"I'm sorry, Redmond, but it was quite the reverse. Sanguinet
suggested we retire, but your papa would have none of it and—ah,
accused Sanguinet of refusing him a chance to recoup." He avoided
Harry's glittering stare and said unhappily, "I'll own I was much
embarrassed."

"And such behaviour totally at odds with my father's
impeccable manners!"

"Oh… quite…" murmured the Reverend sadly.

"The wine, no doubt," soothed his lordship. "Cobb also was
quite put about and declared the play too steep. When he withdrew, I
followed suit. Twice Sanguinet attempted to halt the game, but your
father… well, in all fairness, it would have been most difficult to
refuse him." He paused and said heavily, "I hate to go on…

"My father lost everything. This I know. All I ask is—was it
fair and aboveboard ?"

"It was, sir. I'd stake my life on it. If your father lost, it
was his own doing."

Through a taut pause, green eyes challenged brown and, finding
those eyes steadfast, Harry's heart sank and he asked, "And—
afterwards?"

Cootesby went to pick up the decanter and refill their
glasses. Not until he had replaced the decanter upon its silver tray
did he speak again, and then remained with one white hand on the
stopper, and his eyes fixed blankly on the tawny liquid. "We went up to
bed. I think we all were terribly shocked, although your papa, I must
say, took it very bravely. It must have been about two hours later that
I was awakened by the shot. I knew at once what had happened… I ran
into the hall and met Cobb, and together we went to your father's
bedchamber. When we… got there, he was slumped across the table. The…
pistol was—still in his hand."

Harry's right hand was gripped so hard that the nails bit into
his palm. He had managed to control his emotions, but at these words
his reserve broke. He swung around and stood with hunched shoulders and
head downbent.

"Sanguinet was most distressed," Cootesby sighed, wandering
back to the fireside, "and feared he would be held accountable. He
insisted that Cobb at once ride for the Reverend. Poor Schofield was …
absolutely beside himself and had to be laid down upon his bed. All the
servants were kept away, and we touched nothing until your uncle
arrived some three hours later." He went to his chair, sat down, and
stared glumly at his boots through a silence broken only by the tossing
of the trees outside.

"You know the rest," said Langridge. "When I saw poor Colin,
all I could think of was to spare you—to spare the family the… shame…"
Harry half turned and threw him a withering look. Mordecai spread his
hands. "Dear boy, I
know
how you must feel. I
am—more than sorry."

He was more than sorry, thought Harry, blinking mistily at the
carpet. Sorry for what? For the embarrassment that would be occasioned
the family did it become common knowledge that Colin Redmond had shot
himself? As if that mattered in the face of the tragic, pointless
ending of that fine life! As if anything could fill the void left in
the lives of his sons! Mitch! Dear God! How was he to tell Mitch? Rage
seared through him. It simply did not fit his father's inflexible sense
of right and wrong! There
had
to be a reason!
Struggling to gather his wits, he asked, "My lord, were you aware that
Schofield died recently, under most peculiar circumstances?"

Cootesby murmured, "A foolish accident, I grant you. But poor
Barnaby had been very low in spirits since his son was—"

"No! Your pardon, sir, but Schofield knew what his son was—
he'd known for years! His devotion was to his wife. That he grieved for
Bertram's blindness, I do not doubt. That it destroyed him? Never! And
as for my father—friends they were. Loyal, devoted friends. Barney
would mourn him, of course. But not so deeply as to drive him into his
own grave. There was something else! Some punishing sense of guilt—or
remorse. I know it!"

A crease appeared between Cootesby's brows. He set his glass
down and leaning back in his chair, propped his chin in the palm of one
hand, and said, "Who knows what troubles may have plagued the man?
Perhaps he was in failing health, or financial difficulties. Or his
wife ailing in some way."

Harry bit his lip and paced up and down wrestling furiously
with the facts as opposed to his unalterable faith in his father's
character. "Why did Sanguinet wait so long?" he muttered "he has not
the compassion of a crocodile. Why would he let us go in our fool's
paradise for almost two years?"

"Perhaps he felt responsible," Langridge reasoned. "He agreed
willingly enough that I wait until your health was restored before
divulging the truth to you and your brother."

"And yet," flashed Harry, "our kindly Frenchman suddenly
becomes so alarmed by the prospect of my coming here that he forces his
men upon Lord Cootesby for his 'protection'. Why? Unless… Unless you
do
know something, sir. Perhaps without even being aware of it. Something
that Sanguinet is determined to prevent me discovering."

"But—what . . ? I know nothing that was not known by all the
men in that card game."

Harry gave a bleak smile. "Precisely so. My papa—dead.
Schofield—dead. Cobb—disappeared. And yourself, your pardon, but-known
to be of rather reclusive habits and now all but held captive upon your
own estate!"

"By… George!" Cootesby stared his dismay but, reluctant to
credit this grim implication, argued, "If I am so dangerous to him, why
not have me killed? He certainly has men who'd not balk at such a deed.
Shotten, I'll wager, would whistle while he choked the life from a man!"

"Shotten . . ?" echoed Harry, lost in frowning thought.

"A beastly rogue who is often with Sanguinet. But—
surely
you exaggerate, my dear fellow? Sanguinet is arrogant and ruthless, I
grant you. But—three
murders
? I cannot believe
that he is as—"

"Merciless?" flared Harry. "But he is! And if my suspicions
are correct, mark how clever he has been. Three men, either dead or
missing, yet not one word—not a whisper, of murder. Our diabolical
gentleman leaves no possible link to himself, or that damnable card
game." He intercepted the uneasy glance that flickered between the two
older men and said impatiently, "Well, perhaps he dared not kill every
player save himself—or perhaps he felt you posed the least threat to
him. Who knows?"

Langridge pointed out very gently, "But—dear boy, your papa
was
not
murdered. And Schofield overturned his
carriage…"

The tone was such as one might use to reassure an hysterical
child. With a surge of anger, Harry realized that they probably
supposed him irrational from grief and worry. He began to have some
concept of what Nanette had endured and, throwing his head back,
asserted with stern defiance, "Barnaby was driven to his death, Uncle;
I am certain of it. And as to Papa—there is only one logical answer. He
must have been drugged!"

"Drugged?" gasped his lordship. "In front of a roomful of
other men? I'll admit your father behaved as though he was a little up
in the world, as the saying goes, but—nothing more. And in heaven's
name, why would Sanguinet stoop to such a thing? Whatever else, the
man's lineage is good; he is vastly well breeched, and I'd not think…"
He hesitated, and said uncomfortably, "Forgive me, but—would your
estates offer sufficient inducement to… ah…"

"From what my brother tells me, I must admit they would not,"
scowled Harry. "But nor do I believe that greed lay behind my father's
murder. The truth is that Papa chanced to witness a dastardly killing,
which thereby rendered him a serious threat to Sanguinet." And he knew
with helpless frustration how far-fetched and inconclusive they would
judge that allegation.

Sure enough, Cootesby was courteously silent yet darted a
covert glance at Langridge, who squirmed about and muttered, "You refer
to the Carlson affair, of course. But, Harry—my brother knew nothing of
it. Under
oath
he swore repeatedly that he saw
nothing to indicate foul play and that Sanguinet was not even
in
the other carriage! You surely do not doubt your papa's word of honour?"

Harry flushed but argued stubbornly, "My father may have
overlooked something—some detail that later came to mind."

The Reverend stood and, wandering up and down, muttered, "It
is all so chancy. I fear you merely grasp at straws; but suppose
Parnell Sanguinet
did
drug poor Colin—though I
must admit I can only think such an event wildly improbable—how could
you
possibly
hope to prove so outlandish a thing?"

"I don't
know
!" Harry ran a hand through
his chair distractedly. "Dammitall! It is so clear to me—yet might as
well be gibberish! If only— Wait! I have heard that drugs affect a
man's eyes. My lord— I know it is a lot to ask, but—did you notice
anything odd about my father's eyes that night? Were the pupils
abnormal in any way?"

"Alas!" Cootesby groaned. "I must crush your hopes again, poor
fellow! I wish you had asked that question of any other man, but—I
should explain that I've a hobby, a rather compelling one. I paint
portraits." He gestured shyly to a fine painting above the fireplace.
"That is of my late wife. I am quite… proud of it. But I'll admit I
find the eyes most challenging and am therefore especially interested
in them. In point of fact, Redmond, when you came today, my first
thought was that I'd have guessed you were his son even though your own
eyes are a so much deeper green than were Sir Colin's."

Harry's breath hissed through his teeth and his heart missed a
beat. "B-But… sir! My father's eyes were
not
green!"

Paling, Cootesby came to his feet.

"That is true!" Langridge clasped his hands and said in a
voice that shook, "Natural enough you'd forget, Cootesby. After nigh
onto two years…"

"No." Cootesby denied in a half-whisper. "I distinctly recall
that Cobb made some silly remark about green eyes bringing him bad
luck. And—and somebody… Schofield, I think, said something about
it—running in the family."

"I inherited my mother's eyes, so I'm told," said Harry
breathlessly. "My brother Mitchell has my father's eye colour. Grey!"

They stared at one another, the ramifications stunning to all
of them. Even Harry, his worst fears confirmed yet his hopes realized,
was speechless.

Cootesby groped blindly for his chair and sank into it again.
"Have I been… duped, then? Was I party to so hideous a scheme? My God!
But—I… I
saw
him!"

His mind racing, Harry said, "You saw this—this green-eyed
man, whom you were led to believe was my father. After the shot, did
you see his face?"

Cootesby drew a hand across his suddenly sweating brow. "The
clothes… were the same… I remember so well that… when we got there, the
door stood wide. Schofield was bending over him. With Sanguinet.
Schofield came to the door and urged us not to go inside. It was… too
horrible, he said. He looked like death himself and was in tears… poor
fellow. So—" he shrugged helplessly. "I'd no wish to see such a sight,
I must admit."

Harry drew a deep, trembling breath and turned to Langridge,
his eyes holding a question.

"It was Colin," confirmed the Reverend, plucking at his lower
lip in his perturbation. He shuddered and added, "And he was shot at
that very table. God help me, I wish I might say otherwise."

Harry muttered savagely, "How monstrously clever! Only
Sanguinet and Schofield knew my father, and you and Cobb had no reason
to suspect they were foisting an imposter on you. After the game was
over, the imposter fled. My father was brought in and callously
murdered. Uncle Mordecai's identification was positive, for he never
saw the man with whom you played, only my father's body!"

Langridge all but fell into a chair. "Not
Barnaby .
. ?" he groaned. "Harry,
surely
there must be
another explanation. Good old Barnaby… would never…"

"He did!" rasped Harry. "I am as sure of it as I stand here!
And God help him, I believe that is what drove him to his own death! In
some way, Sanguinet forced Barnaby Schofield to acknowledge an imposter
as my father. And having established his identity and provided grounds
for what was to be
kindly
disguised as his best
friend's suicide, Barnaby could not live with his guilt!"

Langridge leaned back, his face white and twitching. "And I…
helped them! By covering up what I deemed a—cowardly suicide, I
helped
…
my brother's murderers!"

Harry said nothing, but his hand dropped to where his sabre
had been used to hang and his slow smile was a terrible thing to behold.