“Clare lied to you,” Rorie said. “Kenelm doesn’t want to hurt you.”
Clearly this woman had come from Kenelm, was in league with him, and must be silenced. But he would never kill anyone again. Once was more than enough. He had stood by and seen Elmer Garson shoot a horse trader through the heart, and he had himself shot the gypsy in the back when he was attacking Clare, trying to make love to her. It was funny, though, that Clare hadn’t been struggling more. But she had said, “Oh help me. Shoot him!” And he had shot him. “Be quiet!” he said. He couldn’t think with the girl talking to him. He had to think.
Rorie obediently shut her mouth, and began tightening her grip on the knife handle. She wished it were Malone’s rolling pin. She wouldn’t hesitate to hit a man on the head with that, but she couldn’t bring herself to stick a butcher knife into anyone, even if she could get the opportunity. At least he didn’t seem to have a gun. The man noticed the movement of her arms, and grabbed at them. The knife rasped against her stomach, not hard enough to cut her, but enough to frighten her, and she let it fall. In an instant Rutley had seen it and picked it up. He held the wooden handle tightly in his hand, staring at the razor-sharp edge.
“Kenelm sent you. You were going to kill me,” he said. Clare was right. He had to let Clare know what had happened. Only clever Clare could save him. He grabbed Rorie by the two wrists and glowered at her, with the knife in one hand. She was sure she hadn’t another second to live, and gave a desperate jerk to try to break away before she should feel cold steel enter her body.
Chapter Twenty
There was plenty of action in the park of Raiker Hall that night. Lord Raiker, having determined to head north and find the most direct route to London, was riding hell for leather with his eyes and ears alert for Rutley. Malone was huffing along, now reduced to a walk, which was interrupted every five steps to look over her shoulder for Kenelm. She heard him long before he saw her, and stood hooting and waving her hands. She was not hard to spot under these circumstances, and Raiker reined in impatiently. “Malone, what the devil are you doing here?”
“Following Rutley. He went that way.” She pointed roughly ahead.
“Are you all alone?” Ken demanded, eager to get on now that he knew he was on the right trail.
“Rorie’s gone after him on horseback. She won’t let him out of sight.”
“You
didn’t let her go alone! Who’s with her?”
“Nobody, but she’s armed.”
“Does she know how to use a gun?”
“She hasn’t got a gun. She has a knife.”
“Oh my God! He’ll use it against her. How long ago—”
“Not fifteen minutes. Hurry up and you’ll catch them.” He didn’t have to be told to kick his black stallion into another gallop. He was off while she still stood gasping with fatigue. Having come this far, she decided to plod on to the finish, but her pace could be slackened now. He thundered ahead, thinking a million useless thoughts. He didn’t have a gun—should have got a gun from his room.
What was Rutley doing here? What if he had got the knife from Rorie? What if he used it? No, don’t think that. What was Clare up to? To the side he saw the clump of bushes, but Rutley and Rorie were concealed behind it. He nearly galloped past, then caught out of the corner of his eye the hindquarters and tail of a horse just as he approached. He reined to a sudden stop. Staring into the dark shadows, his blood turned cold. A very large man stood with a butcher knife at Aurora’s neck, his other arm holding her against him. He thought his heart would stop.
The large man turned to him. “Get down,” he said in a rough voice. Rutley. He thought it was Rutley.
“Let her go,” Kenelm said, in a cold voice. He must be cool, reasonable. No time to give away to terror. He dismounted.
“Not bloody likely,” the gruff voice answered, and he gripped her more tightly, pushed the knife a little closer against her neck, till she could feel the edge of the blade, cold and sharp. Her head, her whole body throbbed with fear, rational thought beyond her.
Rutley seemed to the others to have the advantage, but he saw no advantage to himself. What was he to do? Two of them now, one of them Kenelm Derwent, bent on killing him.
“Rutley, let her go!” Kenelm repeated, his voice becoming louder, losing its control as he saw her, eyes glazed with fear, her body rigid as death. She couldn’t do a thing to help herself.
Rutley stood firm, not making a move, for he couldn’t think of a single thing to do. The only outcome he could see was standing exactly as he was till morning. Till Clare in some manner discovered where he was, and what had happened.
“You don’t want her. She has nothing to do with this,” Kenelm began, persuasively now, controlling himself.
“She’s your helper. She was going to kill me.”
Kenelm took a tentative step, and Rutley gave a convulsive jerk in response. Rorie tried instinctively to stretch her neck away from the blade, but felt it follow her.
“Wait. We must talk,” Kenelm said, watching the blade move, his heart in his mouth, as he tried to determine whether he could knock Rutley down without risking Rorie’s life.
“No talking,” Rutley shouted back. Talking bothered him. He couldn’t think when people started talking. It confused him. He became perfectly still, completely at a loss as to what to do next, and stood so for a minute, which seemed an hour at least to everyone.
“We have no quarrel,” Kenelm said at last, in a desperate voice, when he saw that the man apparently had no intention of speaking. And always he was watching, hawk-like, for any sign of wavering, any slight lowering of the guard that might allow him to spring in.
There was a sound in the distance, and Rutley’s head turned toward it. In a flash Kenelm leaped on him, going for the knife. His hand snatched at the hand holding the knife, wrenching it away from Rorie’s neck. She squirmed free and knelt on the ground, gasping, unable even to crawl away from the battle area for several seconds. She looked up to see how Kenelm was faring, and saw Malone’s flapping white skirts descending on her. It was her approach that Rutley had heard.
When Rorie looked back to the two men, they were struggling over the knife, each with a hand on it. They seemed an even match. Rutley was bigger and had the better grip on the weapon, but he was slower to move; Kenelm suddenly let go of the knife and gave Rutley’s hand a sharp knock that sent the knife flying through the air, to land with its point buried in the earth a yard from Malone. She didn’t waste a second seizing it, with the full of intention of plunging it in Rutley’s back. While she manoeuvered into the best position, Kenelm stood back and aimed a fist into Rutley’s stomach, followed swiftly by another to his jaw, great driving punches with his full strength behind each. It was like hitting an ox. Rutley hardly budged, but neither did he make any move to return the blows. As soon as he had lost his knife, Rutley considered himself beaten. Raiker continued raining punches on the man till at last he fell to the ground. “Enough,” Rutley moaned.
“Get up,” Raiker said, panting.
Rutley rolled over on his stomach and lay immobile. Seeing he was beaten, Kenelm turned to Aurora, where she sat on the ground, unable to stand for shock and weakness from her fright. He went on his knees beside her and took her in his arms. He could feel her shivering, hear her short rapid breaths. “It’s all right. It’s all right, my dear. I’m here,” he said, cradling her close, making soothing sounds of reassurance and patting her gently, till she was somewhat calmed.
Malone looked on with approval, then took up a stance above Rutley, rolling pin in one hand, knife in the other. After a few moments, Kenelm beckoned to her. She came and handed him the knife. “We have to get Aurora home,” he said. “Can you take her? The two of you, on Clare’s mount?”
“I’ve never been on a horse’s back in my life, and ain’t about to start now. I’ll walk beside her. Can you look after that one?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him.” He went to the man’s side and turned him over with his foot. “Get up,” he said. Rutley came to a sitting position, looking around the ground for the knife. Finding it in Kenelm’s hand, he cowered back, but soon learned that his death was to be postponed. Rorie, too, was on her feet by this time, with Malone comforting her.
After some discussion, Rorie got back on Clare’s mount, Malone was talked into tackling Rutley’s, which was winded enough not to be dangerous, and Kenelm walked back with Rutley, leading his own horse by the bridle. The women could hear them talking all along the way, but Malone was too tired and Rorie too distraught to add anything, or even to pay much attention. The talk was not angry, but reasonable. A discussion rather than an argument. They all went to the Dower House, as it was closer than the inn.
They went into the saloon and fell gratefully onto chairs, while Marnie poured wine and commiserated with her sister, with an occasional timid glance at Rutley.
“My brother is very hungry,” Kenelm said, looking at Horace with pity. He was a gruesome sight, his face bruised and bloodied. He was sent to wash while some food was prepared for him. It was Malone who took the notion he wasn’t to be trusted with the servants, and heaved her tired body from her chair to accompany him. Once she got him alone, she immediately demanded of him what he had done with the emeralds. He looked in dumb silence.
“Eh?” he asked at last.
“We know full well you sold them for Clare. Did you keep
all
the money yourself, or give her some? You might as well tell the truth. It’ll go better for you.”
She was at length convinced he meant to tell her nothing, and was eager to return to the saloon to let Kenelm beat the truth out of him. Kenelm had already discovered the gist of his half brother’s story, and told it to the ladies, with an occasional correction from Rutley.
“When Horace left, it was not over the horse-trading business at all. It was Elmer Carson who killed the other man.” Malone raised her eyebrows to her hairline, and Kenelm said, “I believe him. It was the same night that he went to Raiker Hall to discuss with my father, and his, what he should do about his involvement in it. It was not his intention to leave then, but he never saw Papa. Instead he saw Clare, with the gypsy.
She
says the man was attacking her, though what else she expected, meeting him alone in the conservatory at midnight, one can only wonder. It seems it was a rendezvous, and Horace stumbled on them unwittingly. Seeing him, Clare panicked and began shouting that the man was attacking her. Horace had his gun, which is unfortunate, but it seems to have been the custom with him those days, when he was with Elmer Carson. Anyway, Horace shot him.”
“She told me to. ‘Protect me! Shoot him!’ she said. That’s what she said,” Rutley added. “And he was a big fellow, you know. Strong and wiry. He had a knife. He pulled it out, but Clare called to him and he turned around, and then she called to shoot, so I shot him.”
“It was Horace who changed the man’s clothing, stripping him to remove any evidence that he was a gypsy. She got my uniform to put on him. It would never be missed, as she had already got me packed off. I don’t doubt for a second she had already taken my two rings for herself, and she put them on the corpse for the reason I told you earlier today. She felt the safest place for a body was the graveyard, and the least likely grave to be remarked upon was that of the Jenkins baby, which Father probably did intend moving. It is odd the child was ever buried there, with the family. And it wasn’t sent to the next parish either, but buried right here in our local pauper’s field, Horace tells me.”
“Buried it myself. I can show you the spot,” Horace added, nodding.
“Clare convinced Rutley he was a murderer, and gave him money to skip to America. Which he did, but he didn’t care for it, and began saving money to return shortly after he arrived. He has been back in England two years, but was always afraid to come back here, as Clare had frightened him half to death. He read of my return in the papers and came to me for help, but thought I was at the Hall, so he fell into her clutches again. She was trying to convince him once more to dash to America, as
I
was out to kill him.” He turned to Horace. “Now I don’t quite understand how she convinced you of that, Horace. I never did you any harm.”
“Said you was crazy as a loon after being in India for all those years,” Rutley said simply. “Said you’d kill me if you got half a chance. Thought you meant to do it. I’d never have hurt the little lady,” Rutley added with an apologetic glance toward Rorie, who found him still a fearsome sight with his battered face and bulky frame.
“Why was she so anxious to get Rutley shipped off again?” Malone asked.
“You
pretty well know the story. More or less what she told you last night.”
“With the little detail of the emeralds changed. It is her story that Horace stole them.”
“I never even
saw
any necklace. There was no necklace there,” Rutley said.
“No, that may have been stolen earlier when
I
left, or she may only have taken it then. Nothing was said about it till father died.”
“But why did she have to kill the gypsy?” Marnie asked.
“She must have been in a rare state when she got caught letting him make love to her,” Ken answered. “She might have thought it was Papa coming into the conservatory. In the darkness she couldn’t have been sure, I suppose. After having had to explain my attack on her only six months before, she may have doubted her powers of persuasion. Or she may have thought it was
me
come back. Only she could tell us, so we’ll never know the truth. In any case, she was caught out by someone and would do anything to protect her fair name. I daresay she would have preferred it if Ferdinand had just run off and never showed his face again, but when he pulled out a knife—well, it seems she was going to have a corpse of one kind or another on her hands. She had then only to get Horace to bury the body and persuade him to bolt, and she was clear, with the necklace thrown in as a reward. No one questioned Horace’s flight, as he had been involved in that business with Elmer Carson, who also ran away.”