Death at Gallows Green (18 page)

Bea raised her eyebrows. “I have seen only one motor car,” she said. “It smelt of paraffin and made a great deal of noise.”

“To be sure,” Bradford Marsden said smoothly. “But those are minor engineering defects and will be conquered shortly. In a year or two, it will be possible to ride in a motor car in ease and comfort.” He turned to Kate and extended his arm with a courtly gesture. “I would be delighted, Miss Ardleigh, if you and Miss Potter would walk with me through the gardens. My mother has engaged the best gardeners money can obtain to impress her guests. It would be a pity to waste their efforts.”

“Oh, please,” Bea begged, “I would prefer to sit and be quiet.” She turned. “Here is Sir Charles. Perhaps he will sit with me while the two of you walk.”

“Miss Potter.” Sir Charles, not nearly so elegantly attired as Bradford Marsden, bowed in greeting. His eyes met Kate's and quickly moved away. “Miss Ardleigh. How good to see you.”

Bradford Marsden took Kate's hand and placed it on his arm with a proprietary air, so swiftly and confidently that she could scarcely retrieve it without calling attention to herself. “Miss Ardleigh and I were about to tour the gardens,” he said.

Sir Charles's glance flicked to Kate, her hand on Bradford Marsden's arm, and then to Bea. “Well, then, Miss Potter, perhaps you will sit with me and tell me about your observations on lichens. You have not yet outlined your theory to me,” he added, “and I am most curious.”

“Lichens,” Mr. Marsden said and shook his head. He smiled at Kate. “It's best that we leave them to it, Miss Ardleigh.”

Kate cleared her throat. “Perhaps before the afternoon is out we could talk briefly, Sir Charles,” she said with greater stiffness than she had intended. “I have some information to share with you.” She turned away, wishing in spite of herself that she could stay and contribute an interesting remark or two about lichens.

 

When Kate and Mr. Marsden walked away, Beatrix took a frosty lemonade from a tray offered by a liveried footman and settled herself to enjoy a productive exchange of scientific ideas with Sir Charles. This was not their first such conversation, for her uncle Henry Roscoe had seen to it that they were conveniently seated together whenever they happened to dine at his house, which of late had been once or twice a month. The most endearing thing about Sir Charles, she thought as she sipped her lemonade, was his unquestioning acceptance of her expertise in such odd corners of scientific inquiry as animal behaviour and lichens. It was an acceptance she coveted, for making some recognized contribution to science was another of Beatrix's cherished desires—along with her hope of publishing her drawings and stories and using the earnings to escape from Bolton Gardens.

But after some little conversation, she noticed that Sir Charles's attention was not entirely fixed upon their discussion. He was answering her eager questions in an absentminded way, while his eyes followed Kate and Mr. Marsden as they wandered through the gardens and finally disappeared into the temple on the other side of the lawn. She carried on for a few moments, but the cause was clearly lost.

“Sir Charles,” she said at last, when he had failed to answer a question the second time she asked it, “are you troubled by something?”

He turned toward her. “Troubled? No, not at all, Miss Potter. Why do you ask?”

Beatrix had never considered herself brave, and she was fully aware of the strictures placed by social etiquette upon their discourse. But there were things that had to be said, prohibited or not.

“I ask,” she replied gently, “because you have been waiting for some minutes for Miss Ardleigh and Mr. Marsden to emerge from the temple.”

Sir Charles laughed a little. “Come now, Miss Potter, I hardly think—”

“You are quite transparent, you know,” Beatrix said, gaining courage.

The redness that suffused his jaw showed her that she was correct. “Oh, I
must
say—” he began.

She leaned forward. “Why haven't you told her?”

He paused. “Because there isn't anything to tell,” he said. Then he stopped, considering. When he spoke again, his tone was straightforward and direct. “That is a lie,” he said. “I have not spoken because there are other claims on the lady's affections. They take precedence to mine.”

Beatrix, had been about to drink from her glass. Now she set it down, surprised by his use of the plural. “Claims? Miss Ardleigh has suitors other than Mr. Marsden and yourself?”

The sudden flicker of pain in Sir Charles's eyes raised him in Beatrix's esteem more than a thousand scientific discourses might have done. He could deny his feelings to himself or hide them from others, but he obviously felt them deeply.

When he spoke, his voice was gruff. “She has not mentioned . . . Edward Laken?”

“Only in passing,” Beatrix said. She frowned. “But we are not so intimate that we have shared
all
our secrets.” She looked up. “Please forgive me for probing,” she said quickly. “I am sure it is quite forward of me, but I only wish your happiness, and hers. And forgive me when I say that I truly fail to see why
you
should take it upon yourself to decide which claim should be preferred. I have always understood that decision. Sir Charles, to be the prerogative of the lady.”

He turned his glass in his hands. He did not look at her, but Beatrix could sense his deep unhappiness. “The other gentlemen are close friends of mine.”

“I see.” Bea picked up a pansy that had fallen from the crystal bowl. The delicate purple and yellow petals had always looked to her like children's faces, and she pressed it to her lips. “Yet I still feel that you must press your own claim.” She glanced obliquely at him. “To be fair to the lady, that is to say. What if she should prefer you to the others?”

Sir Charles sat still for a moment, as if he were weighing what she had said. A shadow crossed his face. Then his mouth lifted in an attempt at a smile and he placed his hand over hers in a gesture of intimacy that both surprised and gratified Bea.

“Thank you, Miss Potter, with all my heart. I value your advice most highly, although I fear that it cannot alter my intention. I trust you will safeguard my secret?”

Hesitant, aware that she was transgressing the bounds of propriety, she tried once more. “I cannot persuade you to declare yourself?”

His hand tightened over hers. “You must promise not to speak of this to Miss Ardleigh.”

She pulled in her breath. “Really, I—”

“You must promise, Miss Potter.” His voice was light, as if he were joking, but sharply intent. “This secret must remain between us. Otherwise, not another confidence you will worm out of me.”

She sighed. “Oh, very well,” she said crossly. “But I—”

“Thank you,” he said, and a smile lighted the depths of his brown eyes. He released her hand with a satisfied nod. “Now, what were we saying about lichens?”

In the temple, Bradford Marsden used his silver-topped walking stick to direct Kate's attention first to the splendid stainedglass windows (“the work of William Morris, from a Burne-Jones design”), then to the richly detailed wainscoting, then to an antique marble cherub imported from Florence. But while she appreciated his commentary on the temple's art, her thoughts were with the couple they had left. She desperately wanted to talk to Sir Charles, and she was afraid he might leave before she returned. As quickly as she could, she made an excuse to go back.

“Of course,” he said. He turned toward the door. “But grant me one favour first, please.”

“And what is that?”

His eyes were on hers. “That you will allow me to call upon you in the next few days, Miss Ardleigh.”

Kate was not easily taken aback, but Mr. Marsden's question caught her unprepared. The man seemed to be asking permission to court her. But that was impossible! As a prospective member of the peerage, he was obligated to make a choice that would please Society. And while she enjoyed his friendship, he was not at all the kind of man she would consider marrying. On neither side was it a match.

“To call?” she repeated slowly. “But Mr. Marsden, I—”

“My dear Miss Ardleigh.” His smile was confident, self-assured, and almost (but not quite) surprised. “I trust you do not object?”

She hesitated, even more sure (and even more astonished at the thought) that he meant to court her. “Really, Mr. Marsden, I don't think—”

A shadow darkened the door and a cultivated voice said, “Miss Ardleigh, Mr. Marsden! How nice to see you worshiping the gods of the garden.”

The speaker was Vicar Barfield Talbot, a stooped, leathery old man with a mane of silvery hair, a silver mustache, and an ebullient energy that belied his seventy-plus years. He was carrying a champagne glass in one hand and a white lily in the other. He had obviously been enjoying both the refreshment table and the garden.

“Ah, vicar,” Bradford Marsden said dryly. “Good afternoon.” He turned aside, but the vicar, a friend of Kate's, had more to say. It was several moments before she could manage to interrupt the old man's flow of words and pull herself and Mr. Marsden away.

As they left the temple, Mr. Marsden put his hand under her elbow. “Since you have no objection, I shall call,” he said. Before Kate could reply, he added, “The sooner the better, I think. I have business in London tomorrow. Shall we say, the day after that?”

Kate nodded. She could hardly tell him here that she did not wish to be the subject of his attentions. She would have to tell him when he called. Or perhaps she was imagining the whole thing. Perhaps his call was a purely social visit. Perhaps he meant to bring Eleanor, although he had not mentioned doing so.

Mr. Marsden cleared his throat. “There is another matter I wish to clarify with you,” he said, somewhat stiffly. “It has to do with something my sister told you. About my mother's emeralds.”

“She mentioned to me that she had discovered them missing and feared them stolen,” Kate acknowledged. “This afternoon, she told me that she had been mistaken, but she did not explain.”

“Yes,” he said. “Ah, yes.” He twirled his walking stick, not quite meeting her eyes. “Well, y' see, the clasp on the necklace was broken, and Mama asked me to have it repaired for her while I was in London on business. I took it to a jeweler, and that's where it is. I will retrieve it tomorrow when I go up to London.”

The clasp might well have been broken. But why had that necessitated the removal of the other pieces in the set? Still, if Eleanor were satisfied, she must be, as well. And the matter clearly was not connected with the murder of Sergeant Oliver.

“I see,” Kate said quietly. “I am most gratified to hear that it was merely a misunderstanding.”

Mr. Marsden's voice was hearty and his eyes, when he turned them on her, guileless. “Nothing at all of consequence, I assure you,” he said. “Poor Eleanor has suffered the pangs of self-reproach quite unnecessarily. And now shall we join the others?”

A moment later, Bradford Marsden seated her at the table beside the holly bush. “I shall look forward to our conversation,” he said meaningfully. He smiled at Bea and nodded to Sir Charles, then walked jauntily away, turning his stick between the fingers of one hand.

Kate was acutely aware that Bea and Sir Charles were watching her. “I am pleased to see that you are still here,” she said to Sir Charles. She coughed slightly, to cover her embarrassment at Bradford Marsden's last remark. “Mr. Marsden and I were waylaid by the vicar, and were gone rather longer than I had expected.”

Sir Charles signaled a footman and obtained a glass of lemonade for her. “I assume that the information you have for me has to do with Sergeant Oliver's murder,” he said. There was a certain wryness in his tone, as if he were remembering that he had directed her to stay out of the affair.

Kate glanced at Bea. “You have not told him of our discovery?”

Bea shook her head. “We had something else to talk of. Anyway, I thought you would wish to tell him.”

Kate leaned forward. “We have learned of a curious nocturnal activity at a place called Highfields Farm,” she said, “about a half-mile from Gallows Green, just above the river. Our informant is Betsy Oliver, who witnessed it.”

Sir Charles frowned. “Ah, yes, Betsy. An adventuresome child. One might expect her to rove about at night.” His frown deepened. “What kind of activity? When?”

“Two nights before the sergeant's murder,” Kate replied. “Five men drove a wagon from Highfields barn down to the river, where they removed a number of sacks from the wagon to a boat. According to Betsy, one of the men was called by the name of Juan. Another was called Mr. B.—the familiar name, I am told, of Mr. McGregor's brother-in-law, Tommy Brock. Betsy also described a third, who sounds very much like Mr. Tod, a local bailiff who organizes the crews that travel from farm to farm at harvest and planting time.”