To Wed an Heiress (21 page)

She looked askance at him. He could tell that she was measuring him, trying to determine if he was mocking her. “You see then that Uncle Harold could in no way have committed this crime?”

“I do see that…although I must admit that I ascertained as much from the outset.”

“Then why did you not say as much to Sir Robert? You let him believe that the letter was genuine!”

Pevensey arched an eyebrow. “I could ask the same question to you, Miss Swanycke.”

She paused, acknowledging the validity of his counter. “I had not decided yet what I meant to do. But now I have—and it is not right for Uncle Harold to be blamed for someone else’s depravity. Please, Mr. Pevensey, you must contest that letter and search some more until you find the real murderer.”

Pevensey pushed away from the wall and folded his arms. “I should like to oblige, Miss Swanycke, but unfortunately, I’ve been dismissed from the case, and I return to London tomorrow aboard the morning post.”

P
evensey rose while it was still dark, and daybreak saw him saddling his hired mount to ride into the village.

“Is it true what they’re saying downstairs,” Jimmy, the stable hand, asked, “that it were Mr. Harding who done it?”

“It is indeed true that they’re saying that downstairs,” replied Pevensey brightly, and Jimmy, who was busy hitching a rough-coated mare to the dogcart seemed not to notice the avoidance.

As Pevensey walked his horse out onto the paving stones and swung himself into the saddle, he saw that Jimmy was loading a trunk into the dogcart while Mrs. Rollo stood by. Apparently, Mr. Hastings had succeeded in throwing her out on her ear now that the investigation had ended. By the looks of things, she was intending to take the same morning post that Pevensey was heading towards. He was not enthused by the prospect. One does not like to be forced into a social setting with people whom one has interrogated in an official capacity.

Once in the village, Pevensey rode straight to the Rose and Thistle.

“What can I get ye?” asked the innkeeper, smiling broadly to see Pevensey once again gracing his establishment.

“Might I have one of Mrs. Lublock’s pasties? I have it on good authority that they are of superior quality.”

“But of course!” The balding man beamed at Pevensey.

“Ah, it is Mr. Pevensey!” said a genial voice. Pevensey turned around to see Dr. Stigand seated at a table and already occupied with a pastie of his own. “London bound, I take it?”

“Aye, no more to do in these parts,” said Pevensey with a grin. The doctor motioned to the empty chair, and Pevensey took a seat. He wondered if Stigand would mention the egregious letter, but small talk about the weather and the village began to pass between them, and the doctor seemed happy to tiptoe around sleeping dogs.

“You look like you enjoy a brisk walk often enough,” said Pevensey, nodding toward the doctor’s ruddy countenance and rugged physique.

“I certainly do. It keeps my own health up to walk to my patients’ homes. Although, I must admit, it gets cold these winter months to take it on foot.”

“So you go on horse then to places that lie farther out, like Woldwick?”

“Oh, occasionally, but I’ve walked to Woldwick more times than I could count. We country folk get used to the fresh air.”

Pevensey gave a laugh at the friendly gibe. He was the first to admit that he was a Londoner through and through. “That’s a long way on foot!”

“By the road, yes, but if you go through the woods, it can be done in less than an hour.”

Pevensey put down his pastie and stared. This small talk had suddenly ceased to be small. “Through the woods, you say? How do you mean?”

“Just to the west of the blacksmith shop. That stand of birch is sparse and the ground is level. It’s easy enough to come through to the pond, and from there, there’s a good path to the house. A little circuitous, but well-marked and level. Why, one could even ride a horse through there easily enough, especially during times when the foliage is absent from the trees.”

Pevensey stared. “Dr. Stigand….” His voice dropped to a hollow whisper. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the hallowed sketchbook. Very few hands besides his own had touched its pages. “Would you be so kind as to draw me a map? To scale, if you can.”

“Oh, but of course,” said the doctor. He took the pencil Pevensey proffered and set to work, seeming to sense the urgency radiating from his breakfast companion.

In one corner of the page he drew a clump of houses to represent the village. At the bottom of the page he drew a large rectangle with a roof—Woldwick. On the right, a thick line—the road—made a wide arc from the village to the manor house. Pevensey did not recollect the road having this much bend to it, but the curve was so gradual, he probably had not noticed it.

The pond, on the other hand, was situated in the center of the page. While the line connecting the pond to Woldwick was as squiggly as could be, a crow, if it were so inclined, could fly a straight line from the village to the pond to the manor house.

The scales, which had gradually been peeling away, now fell from Pevensey’s eyes. Two things, the curvature of the main road and the circuitous nature of the pond path, had caused him to grossly overestimate the distance between the pond and the village. Dr. Stigand’s map made everything clear: a man who had a horse and knew his way about might get from the blacksmith’s shop to the pond in fifteen minutes or less.

***

“The post’s a-comin’!” came a shout from the door of the inn. It was the stable boy, performing one of his favorite duties, that of town crier.

Pevensey tensed in his chair.

The doctor looked at him questioningly.

Would Pevensey still need a seat on the post? That is what he had told the stable boy this morning when he handed him the reins of his horse. But so much had changed since then. There was a possibility, a slim possibility, that he could now make a case against someone other than the Earl of Anglesford.

“Dr. Stigand,” he said, “if I were able to provide conclusive evidence that a different individual is responsible for Miss Hastings’ death, would you support me to Sir Robert in claiming that the Mr. Harding confession is a forgery?”

The doctor sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Aye, I would. But only if the evidence is conclusive. Better to have the thing done with, one way or the other, than to have a cloud hanging over the county.”

Pevensey shook the doctor’s hand. It was a peculiar and myopic view of justice, but one that he had encountered often enough in his profession. He wondered, also, if the doctor’s support would depend on whether his conclusive evidence pointed at the “right” person.

He looked out the window and saw that Jimmy had arrived with the dogcart and was helping Mrs. Rollo out. He stood up and scanned the yard to see if any of the other inmates of Woldwick were intending on taking the post this morning. But he only saw a pink-cheeked woman—probably a farmer’s wife—and a young man in a dark coat—possibly a teacher—climb on board.

The horses stamped a little as they waited in the cold, the breath from their nostrils shooting into the air like plumes of smoke. The driver shouted for the stable boy to come over, and they began a heated discussion.

Waving a hand in good-bye to the doctor, Pevensey stepped out onto the porch. The driver looked up. “Are you the gent wantin’ a ride to London this mornin’? ’E says I need t’wait for you.”

Pevensey took a breath, the morning air cold and sharp on his lungs. “Thank you, my good man, but I think I’ll be staying here a little longer.”

The driver slapped his thigh and let out an unseemly epithet. “Second time this week,” he snarled at the boy. “My ’orses have better things to do than stand outside in th’ cold.” He pulled hard on the reins and sent the post carriage out of the stable yard with a jolt.

Pevensey watched as the stable boy went back to his domain, hanging his head and kicking at a pile of straw in front of the stable door. He followed him. “What’s your name, lad?”

The boy looked up. “Tom.”

“Well, Tom, thank you for looking out for me by asking the post to wait, and I’m very sorry that I’ve made the driver angry with you. I didn’t realize until just now that there’s more to this murder investigation than I had thought. I’m staying a little longer—can you keep that just between us?”

The boy’s eyes shone. “Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps you can help me with something. What did the driver mean by ‘the second time this week’?”

“Oh.” Tom frowned. “He’s angry ’cause the same thing happened earlier this week. I asked him to hold the post for a gent and then the gent never showed.”

“How many days ago?”

“Three…four, maybe.”

“And this was the morning post?”

“Aye.”

Pevensey nearly held his breath. “And the fellow…was he French?”

“How’d you know, sir?”

Pevensey grabbed the boy and hugged him. “Thank you, my lad!”

“Y-you’re welcome?” said Tom, obviously flummoxed by this strange behavior.

“My horse, if you please,” said Pevensey releasing him. “I think it’s time I head back to Woldwick.”

“
W
hat is this I hear?” demanded Philippe Bayeux.

Haro looked up from his desk where he was composing a letter to Sir Robert. In the past, he had found the architect moody but unfailingly polite, but this morning neither the customary “my lord” nor even common courtesy were present in his address.

“I confess you have me at a loss. What is it that you hear?”

“That your uncle confessed to murdering her.”

Haro put down his pen, careful to keep the ink from dribbling out onto his letter. There was a wild look in the architect’s eyes. Haro reflected that for a man who loved a woman learning the name of her murderer would be like hearing of her death all over again.

“Allegedly, yes. Did you also hear that my great-uncle is dead?” Haro glanced over to the empty sofa where they had placed Uncle Harold’s body temporarily before they had removed it to a spare room where it could be washed and dressed and await the delivery of a coffin.

“Yes, your valet told me as much.” The man sounded relieved. “I assume I’m no longer needed here then—no need to wait until the inquest. I’ve missed the morning post already, but I’ll take the afternoon one and be gone.”

“Ah,” replied Haro, not knowing how else to respond.
He
was not satisfied that the confession was genuine, and he was appealing to Sir Robert to reconsider his opinion of it. The trouble was wording the letter in such a way that it did not accuse his own mother of falsehood….

“What will you do back in London?”

“Resume my life,” replied the Frenchman curtly. “Isn’t that what one does?”

Haro sensed an implied rebuke, as if he should have spent more time mourning the death of his erstwhile fiancée before resuming
his
life, but he could not tell if the rebuke originated in the Frenchman’s words or in his own mind.

“Will you leave your address with me?” Haro searched for a slip of paper to write it down.

The Frenchman hesitated. “
Pourquoi
?”

“In case the investigator or the magistrate needs any further information from you.”

The other frowned. “I can think of nothing they would need.”

“Oh, but I can!” said a voice from the door of the study. Both men turned to see Jacob Pevensey divesting himself of his greatcoat in preparation for a long conversation.

***

“Mr. Pevensey!” said Haro with a grateful smile. “I thought you were leaving for London.”

“I thought so as well,” replied the slight, red-haired man, “but then I realized I had unfinished business here.”

Philippe Bayeux glanced from the earl to the investigator and walked quietly to the door of the room. “I will not disturb you gentlemen—”

“No, please stay!” said Pevensey heartily. “Please, I insist.” He motioned toward the sofa. Haro noted that it was not so much an invitation as a command. The architect held out for a moment, standing stiffly, but finally acquiesced and sat down on the edge of the sofa.

There was a small wooden chair flanking the bookcase near the doorway, and Pevensey took it, positioned it between the door and the desk, and sat down. The three men formed a triangle, each of them easily able to see the others’ faces, but neither Haro nor Bayeux would be able to leave the room unless they pushed past the investigator.

Pevensey rubbed his hands together. Haro thought he looked positively enthusiastic about what was to come. “Have you informed Monsieur Bayeux of the true nature of Mr. Harding’s confession?”

“No,” said Haro. “He has only just learned of the confession’s existence.”

“Ah,” said Pevensey. He turned to the architect. “A forgery. Easily proven to be so, both by the content and the penmanship. But not, I think, forged by you.”

“
Mon dieu
! Why would it be?”

Haro watched as Pevensey leaned back in his chair and crossed one foot over the other. What was the Runner going to say next? Haro could see that Bayeux was in suspense as well—one of his knees was bouncing erratically, and he was sitting so close to the edge of the sofa he looked ready to tumble off of it.

“Tell me, Monsieur Bayeux, what is the quickest way to get from the pond to the village?”

“
Je ne sais pas
. I am not from this place.”

“My lord?”

“Through the woods,” Haro replied. “I went that way often when I was a boy.”

“And how long do you think it would take for a man on horseback to make his way from the woods to the blacksmith shop?”

Haro shrugged nonchalantly, but his hands gripped the edge of his writing desk. “A quarter of an hour. Why?” Dear God in heaven, were Eda’s suspicions proving correct? Had Jacob Pevensey found a chink in Bayeux’s armored alibi?

Pevensey fixed his eyes on the Frenchman. “You, monsieur, were at the stone mason’s shop at nine o’clock, yes?”

“I have told you as much.”

“Which is just about the time that Lord Anglesford discovered the broken ice beside the pond. Fifteen minutes earlier, and you could have been at that pond yourself, talking with Miss Hastings, arguing with her, putting your hands about her throat—”

The Frenchman leaped up from the sofa. “How dare you!”

Pevensey stood as well, his body taut. Bayeux was several inches taller than the Runner, but Haro wagered that the smaller man could hold his own if it came to barring the door and preventing the Frenchman from flight. He half rose from his own chair at the desk, ready to intervene if Pevensey should need assistance.

Bayeux’s nostrils flared. “Why should I do such a thing? Kill her and I lose my job renovating this relic.” He waved a scornful hand at the Baroque moldings in Haro’s study.

“Why?” echoed Pevensey. “Because she was not just your employer. She was your lover, and had jilted you for him.” He gestured toward the desk where Haro stood poised.

The Frenchman snorted. “
Non
! She did not jilt me. Her
father
broke off the engagement—that pig! I was the son of a French aristocrat. At first I was good enough for his daughter. But then, as his fortune increased, he began to think he could do better. France was in turmoil; my title meant nothing. He wanted an English lord for his daughter, a viscount or a duke. But to bag an earl?
Eh bien
, the gods were smiling on him.”

Haro loosened his cravat. This whole exchange was playing out before him like the scene from a tragic opera. He did not particularly like the role assigned to him either—the earl that had been bagged!

“So you are saying Miss Hastings did not care for Lord Anglesford?”

“I did not think so. Why else would I have come all this way but to persuade her to defy her father’s wishes?”

Haro eased himself back into his chair. He remembered the day Philippe Bayeux had appeared. It had been strange that neither Arabella nor William Hastings had mentioned his imminent arrival, and indeed, they both had seemed startled by it, and sought to explain the reason for it almost as an afterthought.

Pevensey pressed on. “But she would not be persuaded, would she? You pressed her to call off the engagement, to run away with you, and all to no avail. You pretended to be drafting plans to remodel this house, but in reality, you were wandering the woods pining for her, watching her falling in love with him”—a finger pointed in Haro’s direction once again—“and feeling the brick house of all your hopes crumble about you.”

The Frenchman’s mouth compressed into a thin line.

“You had given up in despair, and four days ago, you were prepared to forget your heart and take the post back to London.”

Haro’s own heart began to beat a little faster. Part of him wanted Pevensey to rush ahead to the end, but part of him wanted to linger on each piece of the story, climbing the mountain of evidence one slow step at a time until, reaching the summit, the whole would be revealed.

“But then, on the morning of your departure, you penned one last despondent note, begging her to meet you at the pond to say farewell. You rode into town, breakfasted at the inn a little after eight o’clock, told the stable boy you would be leaving on the morning post, and then set off to take a shortcut through the woods behind the blacksmith’s shop.”

“A shortcut? How would I know of such a thing? I am not native to this county.”

“Ah, but you had stumbled upon it earlier in the week, when your borrowed horse threw a shoe in the woods and you walked it a quarter mile to the blacksmith’s to have it reshod.”

“So it was you spying on us!” Haro said. “I saw someone walking in the woods, leading a lame horse, but it was too far away to see your face.”

The Frenchman glowered in his direction then turned back to Pevensey. “A pleasant fiction, but one you will never, ever be able to prove.”

“You talked with her on the bridge, perhaps even made one last appeal for her to run away with you. She refused—haughtily, I imagine. You became angry. She taunted you. You could not control yourself—”

“An utter falsehood!” Bayeux ground his teeth together. There was a storm building behind those chiseled cheekbones. Haro glanced at the lines of Bayeux’s coat, trying to ascertain whether the fellow was carrying a pistol.

“We all know what happened next,” said Pevensey, his eyebrows arching superciliously. “Perhaps you did not mean to kill her…just to make her stop talking, stop saying those things you did not wish to hear. When you realized what you had done—that she was no longer breathing—you shoved her away from you. And over the railing she toppled, down through the ice below.”

An inarticulate cry came from Bayeux, and his hands balled into fists. No, he was not carrying a pistol, Haro decided, or he would have pulled it out at this moment.

“You panicked. You had just killed a woman. One might get away with such a thing in France with your ‘
Vive la Revolution
!’, but here in England such things are investigated, frowned upon, and punished.

“You are a foreigner. You had a checkered, albeit concealed, past with Miss Hastings. You would be suspected right away. You ran from the bridge, leaped onto your horse, and rode through the trees like a madman, stopping just briefly to compose yourself before you reached the blacksmith’s shop on the outskirts of the village.

“You had planned to leave that morning on the post, but there was no guarantee that you could disappear into the warrens of London before your misdeed caught up with you. Besides, as you looked at your pocket watch, you saw that nine o’clock had come and gone, and so had the post.

“You had to create for yourself an incontrovertible alibi, an event that placed you somewhere else at the time of the murder. You remembered an appointment you had made with the stone mason, an appointment that you had decided to forgo when you packed to leave the county. But now you needed this appointment—needed it like old Boney needs his Josephine.

“You found the blacksmith and his brother. You told him several times that it was nine o’clock so that the time would stick like tar in his mind. And when you had wasted enough time looking at samples of stone, you swallowed down your gorge and headed back to Woldwick, prepared to feign shock and surprise when you learned of Miss Hastings’ disappearance or demise.”

“What proof do you have?” Bayeux’s hoarse voice was admitting nothing, but every drop of sweat on his face was a telltale confession.

Pevensey paused. “I think you are aware that the maid, Mademoiselle Mathilde, was both a letter-keeper and a secret-keeper. A blackmailer too, but that is beside the point.” He pulled a sheet of paper out of the pocket of his coat. “The letter that you sent to Miss Hastings on the fateful day—”

Before the Runner could finish his statement, the architect had leaped upon him, seizing his wrist and snatching at the incriminating paper. Pevensey struggled manfully, but the Frenchman had the advantage of him in size. A fire was blazing in the grate on the wall opposite. Haro had no doubt in his mind what Bayeux was intending to do with the letter once he seized it.

He reached into the drawer of the desk that had belonged to his father and thanked God that he had omitted to lock the case which held the loaded pair of pistols.

***

Eda came out of Lady Anglesford’s room and glanced down the stairs. The Bow Street Runner had left at dawn for London—or at least that was what Mrs. Alfred had told her. But not ten minutes ago, she had been looking out an upstairs window and had seen a man ride up with an unmistakable pile of bright red hair on the top of his head. She had excused herself from attending on her aunt as quickly as she could and advanced to the top of the stairs to survey the situation. No one was in the entrance hall below, but as she darted down the stairs, she could see that the door to the study was ajar. Filtering out into the hall came the sound of men’s voices raised in altercation.

Torin, who had popped out of the adjacent library, converged upon Eda just as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “I say, there’s some sort of row going on in Father’s study.” A series of thumps now resounded through the entrance hall, as if something—or someone—was being thrown against the wall.

The cousins looked at each other conspiratorially, and then in tacit agreement, stepped forward to place their ears against the crack. They were just in time to hear the words, “Stop, monsieur, or I shoot!” followed by the earsplitting crack of a gunshot.