Revenge of the Barbary Ghost (18 page)

But … he sighed, watching Twynam examine the captain’s sodden clothes. Anne had cared for the man. As much as Darkefell thought St. James must have had something to do with the smuggling, he was not about to expose him, and so ruin his reputation when there was no opportunity for him to redeem it. Not yet, at least.

Twynam stood, finally, in the middle of the room, looking around. He stepped over to the window and looked out, the view of the cliff and the sea beyond it, then turned slowly, his expression set in a frown. “Why was the captain down on the beach? Does anyone know?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Darkefell answered.

“I believe this murder happened before high tide last night, and his body was swept up onto the rocks by the water.”

“I think you are right, Twynam,” Darkefell agreed.

Colonel Withington, his pleasant face set in a sad expression, said, “Good god, men, must you so coldly speak of such matter in this room, near the body?” He knelt by the bed and bowed his head, murmuring a prayer.

“I think Captain St. James’s spirit would wish, if he is here in this room, that we make every effort to find his killer,” the magistrate said.

Darkefell agreed, and watched Twynam, thinking what a contrast this fellow, as local magistrate, was to his own area magistrate, Sir Trevor Pomfroy. Pomfroy, pompous and stupid, a deadly combination, would have leapt to some conclusion, but Twynam did not seem about to do anything rash. It confirmed for Darkefell what he had been thinking for some years; as the most powerful man in his parish, and indeed in his part of Yorkshire, it was time to replace his inadequate magistrate in favor of someone with more modern thoughts and opinions.

Twynam nodded as he turned, surveying the room, then he met the marquess’s gaze. “I must see Miss St. James before I leave, and I do not think I can await the arrival of the vicar. He may not be available, after all, or may be out on a parish call. Would you see if the young lady is now available, my lord?”

He was not going to let that go, quite clearly, and to do his job effectively, that was only to be expected. Darkefell made a swift decision, nodded, and exited to the hall, pausing as he surveyed the rooms. He tapped on the first one, and Anne’s maid, Mary, came to the door and directed him to one at the farthest end of the hall.

He tapped on that door. Anne, pale but composed, peeked out.

“Twynam really does need to speak with Miss St. James, Anne. He just wants to find the killer, and I think he’s a good man to do it. Could she speak with him?”

“Let me ask her,” Anne said, and closed the door.

He could hear them murmur to each other, and finally, she came back.

“If Mr. Twynam would visit her in her room, she will answer what she can. But I won’t leave her alone, Tony, not when she’s like this. She’s … fragile.”

Darkefell, feeling utterly like an errand boy, fetched Twynam and guided him to the young woman’s chamber, leaving Colonel Withington with the captain’s body. Pamela St. James reclined on a sofa by the window, her lovely face ravaged by grief and tears, her eyes swollen and her hair disarrayed. She pressed a stained kerchief to her eyes, blotting her tears. Not sure whether to go or stay, Darkefell lingered at the door, until Anne beckoned him in. He sat on a chair by a dressing table, while the enormous Twynam crouched by Miss St. James.

The magistrate asked her a few questions about St. James, and about herself, why they had settled in Cornwall. She answered calmly enough; since St. James’s regiment was stationed near St. Ives, Pamela had decided to locate nearby.

“Now, yesterday, Captain St. James was … er, convalescing from an injury he had sustained in a quarrel.”

The man glanced over at Darkefell, who felt his face flush and that damned vein in his neck throbbed.

“My lord, this is where you join the tale, I believe?” Twynam said, in a deceptively calm tone. When no one said a word, he looked around. “Come now, you all were there, at the regimental assembly. Does anyone care to tell me what the marquess and the captain had to quarrel about?”

“Miss St. James and I were at the assembly, sir, but the altercation took place in the smoking room. We were not present.” Anne glanced over at Darkefell, and raised one eyebrow.

“I cannot believe that Captain St. James did not tell anyone what the quarrel was over,” Twynam said.

Anne stayed silent. Darkefell knew that she could not repeat the story St. James had told her, about his supposed revelation of their intimacy. Even though it was what Marcus had told her the quarrel was about, and even if she had questions still about its truth or falseness, confessing it would not do her own credit any good. Nor would it help in discovering who killed St. James.

But Twynam let the question hang and glanced from face to face until Anne, her cheeks pale, took in a trembling breath and seemed about to speak.

Darkefell said, “I will speak with you in private, Twynam. It is not a story for ladies.”

“All right,” Twynam said, genially. He stood, groaning a little and rubbing his knee. The floor creaked as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Miss St. James,” he said, as if it was an afterthought, “where were you last night when the smuggling clash was going on below Cliff House?”

“She was in her room, sir, of course!” Anne said, outraged by the question.

“I asked Miss St. James, my lady.” He kept his gaze steady on Pamela.

“I was in my room,” she said. Her pale hand fluttered to her forehead. “I awoke … perhaps from the noise … and did not feel well. I was going to get myself a glass of buttermilk, but Anne offered to get it for me. She did, and I returned to bed.”

“And you, my lady? Why were you out of your room, as you must have been if you offered to fetch buttermilk for Miss St. James?” Twynam said, turning toward Anne.

“Of course she was abed as well, Twynam, by Miss St. James’s own word!” Darkefell said.

“Do none of you answer your own questions?” the man asked, looking from one to the other of the three younger folk. “You each seem loath to answer questions about your own movements and eager to answer for each other.”

“I heard a noise outside my room, sir, and found Pamela in the hall heading downstairs, so I went to the larder for buttermilk for her. She appeared feverish, Mr. Twynam. She has suffered from that complaint before, and I worried about a recurrence.”

“Good. That is all I wished to know … for now.” He headed toward the door. “My lord, if you will precede me?”

Darkefell exited, but Twynam paused in the door. “One more thing; I have heard wild tales of some ghost that hovers off the cliff and frightens the more suggestible of the excise officer’s crew. Do either of you know of what I speak?”

“That is the infamous Barbary Ghost, sir,” Pamela said, with a faint smile, brushing back a stray lock of hair on her cheek. “If you believe in such things. The old tale is about a pirate who stole a young lady from this very house. As you say, the more suggestible of the men may have seen something, but I know nothing about it.”

“Good day, Miss St. James, Lady Anne. I will see you again, very soon.”

It did not escape Anne’s notice that the man had not followed up on his assertion that Puddicombe had made some kind of accusations, or allegations. About what, she wondered? What did the excise officer know, and what was he browbeating Pamela about the day before? And why had Twynam put off speaking about it?

Eleven

Pamela broke down in tears and sobbed, her face cradled in her arms, as the men left the room and descended the stairs, the wooden steps creaking under Twynam’s weight.

Anne felt so useless. To try to take her friend’s mind off her tragedy, she hunched down by the sofa and softly said, “You were going to tell me something earlier, my dear.” When Pamela first made the comment, it was not a good time for the discussion; she had wanted to ready her friend for the questioning she knew was going to come, and so had not pursued Pamela’s “confession.” She had been hysterical and didn’t make a lot of sense. “You were saying it was all your fault, St. James’s death. I don’t understand; whatever did you mean?”

With a last choked sob, Pamela took the handkerchief Anne offered—her own was sodden and stained beyond use—and dried her swollen eyes. She looked up at her friend. “Marcus was alive and well after the skirmish last night. I saw him.”

“
You
saw him?” Anne stared at her.

“When you met me in the hall, I had just come upstairs.”

“But you were in your nightgown!”

“I had my shift on under, um … other clothes,” she admitted.

“So you were down on the beach,” Anne said, trying to figure out what Pamela was saying. It came to her then that Marcus’s dead body had not been wearing his pirate gear; some time between when she last saw him and when he was murdered, he must have taken off his ghost costume. “Why?”

Pamela didn’t directly answer, saying, “I was down on the beach during the melee, and Marcus came to get me; he was worried about my safety, and helped me get up the cut almost to the house. But then he went back down. I don’t know why!” She sobbed, tears welling up in her eyes. “Marcus only got involved in the smuggling because I had already made a deal with Micklethwaite,” she said, her tone leaden. Holding Anne’s handkerchief to her mouth, she bravely choked back more tears.

“Micklethwaite … the ship captain.” Anne rose and paced to the window, methodically working through her thoughts. This just could not mean what it sounded like it meant, she thought, resolutely determined not to jump to conclusions. She turned and stared at Pam. “So you
knew
about the smugglers landing goods on your beach,” she said, reiterating the facts. “But why were you down there last night?”

Pamela hesitated. Her glance flicked up to Anne’s eyes and then away. “It’s more than just knowing about the smuggling, Anne. I organize the landings and direct the dispersal of smuggled goods. Micklethwaite and I are partners in the enterprise. I am Lord Brag, the smuggling leader.”

She should have thought of the possibility, Anne admitted to herself, but who, looking at Pamela St. James, prim, fashionable and pretty, would ever have expected her to be Lord Brag, the smuggler? Certainly not Anne, and she had been living there, under the same roof, for weeks. “But why …?” She trailed off, staring at her friend. There were no words.

At that moment Lolly tapped on the door and ducked her head in the room. “I do so dislike intruding, but Mr. Barkley, the vicar, is here.”

Pamela stood and took Anne’s hands in her own. “Please, Anne, will you trust in me and order your driver to come for us tomorrow morning, early? I know it’s the Sabbath, but … but I just couldn’t face the congregation tomorrow, and I have someplace else I must go. I’d like you to go with me.”

Anne, still trying to digest what she had learned, agreed. Pamela would not divulge any more, merely saying that all would be revealed on the morrow. For now, she was going to do one last thing for her beloved brother, and see the vicar to order his funeral. His regiment would take care of most of the arrangements, and the regiment’s chaplain would perform the ceremony, but Pamela had some things concerning which she needed to speak to the vicar. She asked if Anne would come with her to speak to the man, and Anne acquiesced.

While Pamela and Anne met with the vicar in the study, a dark little room off the staircase landing, and Darkefell saw the magistrate and colonel off, Osei had set himself to be useful around the house. Lolly Broomhall had taken a liking to the marquess’s quiet secretary, but when Darkefell came back in the house, she gave the younger man a stern look and asked for a moment alone with the marquess. Osei bowed and said he would ready their horses.

Darkefell faced the softly rounded little lady. “May I be of some assistance, madam?”

“You may,” she said. She sat down in a chair in the sitting room and indicated that he was to sit opposite her. “Lord Darkefell, you are a Yorkshire man, I understand?”

“I am.” And for the next ten minutes, Darkefell found himself being grilled on his home and family. There was nothing that he was not prepared to answer, so he was forthright, amused by her pointed line of questioning. Was he prepared to marry? Yes, he answered. When the time and the lady was right, he would do his duty to his title and birthright with alacrity. Did he consider his family home to be ready for a lady? Yes, he said, he had taken considerable pains in renovating it, and the results were pleasing, in his own estimation. Even Lady Anne, whose opinion he esteemed, he said, had seen the work he had done to make the castle more comfortable, and approved it.

Miss Broomhall paused, her lips pursed, and looked down at her locked hands. Then she looked up again. “And what are your intentions toward Lady Anne, young man?”

This was where it ended. He was not about to announce his intentions to this lady, though she had every right to ask as Anne’s nominal chaperone. But if he had learned anything about Anne, it was that she was independent, and suspicious of his methods in attaching her interest. The slightest hint that he was securing the good offices of her companion might be enough to doom his suit, for a while at least. He did not intend that
anything
would keep her from accepting his hand in marriage ultimately, but in a battle for a woman’s heart—or at least a woman as stubborn as his Anne—subterfuge was a necessary part of his arsenal.

“Intentions, Miss Broomhall?” he said, airily, sitting back in the creaky chair. “My intention is to be her friend.”

Lolly Broomhall gazed at him steadily, her dour expression sitting poorly on such an apple-dumpling face. But he could not laugh at her while she was so serious, and for such a good cause; she clearly cared for Anne a great deal, and Darkefell believed that regard was returned by Anne. In that case, he would attempt to win her over, as much as he could without compromising his ultimate goal, Anne’s complete capitulation to him.

“Gentlemen and ladies cannot be friends, my lord,” she said, watching his eyes, “Unless one of them be incapable of the softer feelings that exist between a man and a woman. I know Anne to be tender of heart, so are you … incapable?”