Death of a Radical (37 page)

Light swung up the stairs. The crown of a head rose smooth and bare. The head turned. They looked eye to eye. He saw the surprise in the pale gaze and the recognition—but it was too late. The strap snaked over the head and bit into the soft flesh of the neck. The lantern clattered down a step or two and went out.

Velvet bristles brushed his mouth. He turned his face away to protect his nose. The skin-covered skull knocked hard against his cheek. All the burning intensity within him was concentrated on that moment. Detached, he listened to the harsh, desperate noises in the dark. He felt
the weight collapse against his leather reins. Life ebbed between his hands. Beneath the fear and the other effluvia of death, he could smell sandalwood soap.

He ticked off seconds in his head. It was done. He looped the long reins and tossed them over the beam. He heaved the body up. The swollen face bobbed up and up from the darkness. A third of the body was out of the stairwell. He crouched down against the weight, pausing to adjust his grip. The head lolled inches away. The sandy-lashed lids were half closed.

He tied off the leather straps. Sliding past the legs, he retrieved the lantern and lit the candle and shuttered it. By its dim light he arranged things, taking his time, dusting away marks, checking his clothes. Then he left the way he had come, passing through the trees, and over the orchard wall—silent and unseen.

The end of it. Once again he was walking under the arch leading to the yard of the Queen's Head where it had all begun; and now it was done. Grub was avenged. His firm step echoed against the stone as if it belonged to someone else. Pale lines of light glimmered from shuttered windows. He heard the rumor of voices. There were still men in the bar. He did not want company. He wanted oblivion. He climbed the gallery steps as weary as death. He needed a drink. A door opened ahead of him. He smelt a familiar perfume.

“I thought you were gone,” his voice said.

“Company went ahead with the baggage. Principals
follow tomorrow. He's safe on his way to Manchester.”

“But you've not gone with them?” he repeated dully.

“We take the stage tomorrow.” Her hand rested on his breast. It slid up to his face and cradled his cheek. He leaned his tired head against it. He felt her warmth on his cold skin. “You're all tired out, my love.” He looked into the light, knowing eyes. She saw him as he was and she expected nothing more. “Come with me,” she said. Her small hand clasped his and he followed her into the darkness.

What are you good for?

This?

He woke with a pounding head and a dry mouth. The fire was out. A froth of copper curls lay on his chest. She slept beside him with her mouth open, her milky skin flushed on the cheeks like a child. Her freckled breast seemed somehow more naked in the morning light.

His only thought was to get out. He pulled on his clothes by the door, fearful every second of waking her. Minutes later he swung up onto Walcheren and was heading for open ground.

The snow had melted. The earth was fresh and green under a strengthening sun. The hedgerows were full of birdsong. Henrietta Lonsdale rode up above the Carlisle road light-hearted. The fairs were over and the players departed. She sensed hope in the air among the puffs and wisps of cloud that hung in the blue spring sky. Her
mind wandered over the events of the past week. Mr. Adley's death was not the first thing she remembered, and she felt a sting of shame when she recalled it. His death was very terrible and she felt deeply for Mr. Jarrett, but she herself had hardly known the boy. Her thoughts lingered over other scenes.

Henrietta was conscious of how little she knew of Mr. Jarrett and his origins. She was no green girl. She speculated that the mystery obscuring his connection to the duke's family concealed a scandal but she found she did not care. The truth, she told herself boldly (and when she was alone Henrietta could be bold), was that she was bored by the confines of her respectable existence. And Mr. Jarrett's company was … exhilarating. The even tenor of her life had at last been broken open and she delighted in it.

He could not bear the thought of returning to the Old Manor. He was detached, untethered, as if his actions had broken his recent, fragile moorings. How could he stay on now? What would he do if he left? He had sold his commission; he had few funds. Distracted and part-mesmerized by the rhythm of Walcheren's familiar gait, he hardly noticed that they were heading up the southern slope of Quarry Fell.
You and I, we do what we do because we're good at it …
Strickland would probably give him a job. The thought made him heart-sick.

A rider rode toward him out of the sky. With a falling sensation below his sternum, he recognized the pretty
black mare and the sage-green habit of the woman on its back.

“We have the same idea, Mr. Jarrett,” Miss Lonsdale called out to him as she rode up. “Spring is come at last!” There were delicate sweeps of shadow under his eyes and his skin was pallid under his tan. How tired he looks, she thought compassionately. She watched him rub the back of his thumb wearily over one eyebrow as if he couldn't think what to say.

“Come,” she said bossily. “The exercise will do you good.” Before he could answer, she urged her black mare forward into a canter. “Catch me if you can,” she called over her shoulder like a careless girl. Walcheren stretched out his legs and gave chase.

She had an excellent seat. Her mare was quick and strong. They gave him a good race. Over a short distance at least, it was only Walcheren's longer legs that gave him the edge. Miss Lonsdale brought her mare to a halt on a little outcrop of hill that seemed designed as a viewing platform for the sweeping panorama of the valley below. Jarrett took his bearings. They were near the packhorse trail, above the Anderses' farm. Blood coursed through his veins and the clear air filled his lungs, refreshing him. He eased back in the saddle, feeling the muscles in his shoulders and neck relax.

After a moment, he began to suspect that Miss Lonsdale was waiting for something. He glanced over. Her profile was serene; she appeared to be admiring the view. She rose a little in the saddle, tilting her head to
look downward. He was intrigued. The movement seemed somehow exaggerated. He followed her eye-line down.

Their platform overlooked a pretty copse nestling in a dip. A path ran to it alongside a field—a field that lay on the outer edge of the Anderses' farm. In punctuation to this thought, a woman came into sight down the path. She was wearing a yellow dress and a straw bonnet, a blue shawl, and most extraordinarily for Quarry Fell on a brisk spring morning, she carried a parasol in white-gloved hands.

“Miss Anders!” he exclaimed under his breath. He glanced at his companion. She was still looking out over the view, with a little smile on her lips.

A gentleman stepped out of the trees: a gentleman dressed like a beau of a generation before in a long-waisted coat. He swept off his low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat and bowed low to Miss Anders. They turned together, arm in arm, and Jarrett saw the gentleman full face. He recognized the curls; hair like black lambs' wool. In a flash he saw the painted insignia of Miss Lippett's family crest, the cornflowers twined in the harvest sheaf, and the penciled design on Miss Anders's sewing with its vivid blue flower head. If he had been struck by lightning he could not have been more stunned.

Henrietta Lonsdale was watching him closely with a slightly anxious look in her gray-green eyes.

“You were so fixed on discovering the man Mr. Duffin saw on the fell that night,” she said astonishingly. “I had
to speak. I knew Jonas Farr was not that man, and that the man Mr. Duffin saw was no murderer.”

“Nor man neither,” he countered curtly.

“No,” she agreed. Her eyes danced.

“How can her family be ignorant of
this
?” he demanded.

“It is Monday—the third Monday of the month,” she replied prosaically. “Matthew Anders and his brothers always attend the Woolbridge agricultural meeting on the third Monday of the month.” Jarrett stared down at the extraordinary couple below.

“And her grandmother? I thought old Mrs. Anders never left the house?” Henrietta arched her elegant eyebrows.

“Mrs. Anders? She's as deaf as a post.” She leaned down abruptly to pat her mare's sleek neck, hiding her face.

“But she can't be blind!” he exclaimed. Miss Lonsdale heard the revulsion in his voice. She coaxed her horse round to face him.

“This is a woman's secret, Mr. Jarrett,” she said seriously. “I believed I might trust you with it. Besides,” she added, trying for a lighter tone, “I dare say you have seen stranger things.”

“I am not so certain,” he replied. Down on the path below the gentleman presented Miss Anders with a small parcel wrapped in tinsel paper. The farmer's daughter opened her present with every appearance of delight. She placed a chaste kiss on her admirer's cheek and they strolled by the trees arm in arm beneath the joyous sky. A thought struck him and he swung round in his saddle
to face his companion. “You are telling me that others know of this?”

“Other women, yes. Some old friends and neighbors.” He thought of Mrs. Hilton sitting among her hulking husband and sons.

“And yet their menfolk are ignorant?”

“Men are inclined to judge uncommon women harshly,” Miss Lonsdale said carefully. He heard a wistful note in her voice. “Miss Josephine's eccentricities do no one any harm. Mary-Anne is happy to have so genteel an admirer.”

He stared at her.

“She knows?”

“Of course!” she answered, amused. His attention was drawn, fascinated, back to the couple below.

“But why?”

“It is very pleasant to be read to and admired. The country swains would never pay Mary-Anne such pretty attentions. I do not see why Miss Lippett should be pilloried for so harmless an eccentricity. Besides,” she added with a twinkle, “the Lippetts are one of our oldest families.”

“Eccentricity!”

Henrietta caught the undertone of disgust. “I
can
trust you?” she asked urgently. He looked into her eyes. He was astounded by her faith in him.

“Yes ma'am,” he answered. “You can.” He watched her relax. She gathered her reins more securely in her gloved hands.

“I am to meet Lady Catherine at the Queen's Head in
an hour. I must return to town.” He flinched at the thought of the Queen's Head. He fell in beside her, trying to remember if he knew what time Bess was supposed to leave.

“Let me escort you—as far as town at least. Was Farr aware of …” he waved a hand wordlessly.

“I think Jonas Farr was, beside yourself, perhaps the one member of your sex who was. Somehow he gained Miss Josephine's trust and proved worthy of it.”

“So
that
is why he would not tell me how he came by those clothes! But why would he … ?”

“I believe—if I have read certain hints aright—Mr. Jonas Farr has an aunt who is somewhat similarly inclined.” He felt his jaw drop. He mastered it. Henrietta bit her lip.

“Why, Mr. Jarrett,” she said gently, “I thought you a man of the world.”

They came off the sunlit fell and trotted down the Carlisle road. His sleep-starved brain was reeling. He slid a side-look at the rider beside him. She sat, back straight, perfectly composed, rising and falling neatly on her pretty mare. His eyes drifted down the smooth fabric of her habit as it curved so closely across her breast. The vignette he had glimpsed at the Queen's Head rose in his mind: that ludicrous spinster patting Miss Lonsdale's bare neck with a napkin on the pretext of her having been caught in a shower of snow. He realized she was watching him with an anxious little frown.

“Madam, you astound me,” he said.

“I hope that's a good thing.” She laughed and he found himself laughing with her.

Ahead of them the honeyed light of the sun glazed the curve of the bridge and danced on the surface of the river. Woolbridge rose up the hill on the other side. He tasted Bess in his mouth and felt the weight of her hair against his skin; as his hands held the reins, they seemed to flex with the memory of what they had done. He stopped laughing.

“You do not know me, Miss Lonsdale,” he said abruptly.

“No?” Her head was tilted back a little; the long lashes curtained her green-gray eyes. “I suppose I must go by appearances.” Although he feared a true answer, he responded in the drawing room manner.

“And what do you see?” He braced himself for some flippant, foolish bon mot. Instead she answered sincerely.

“I see a man who cares for others; an honorable man; a man who can be trusted.” He was warmed by a sudden surge of hope. Henrietta Lonsdale spurred her horse over the bridge. “And I,” she said, humor lifting her voice, “am an
excellent
judge of character.”

They turned up Cripplegate Hill. Dickon Watson ran out from Powcher's Lane.

“Mr. Jarrett! You should come see this!”

“Perhaps you'd best go on to the Queen's Head, Miss Lonsdale.”

“Nonsense!” she responded briskly, following him.

“It's Bedford's coachman. He's only gone and hung himself!”

Mr. Bedford, Colonel Ison and Constable Thaddaeus were clustered at the bottom of the stairs to the stable loft staring up at a pair of suspended feet.

“There's a beam that runs above the stairs over the well,” Constable Thaddaeus pointed upward with his staff of office. “He must have meant to do it. He could have kicked out and taken purchase on a stair if he'd had a mind.” He craned his neck. “Used a pair of your carriage reins, looks like, Mr. Bedford.”

“What's the meaning of these, do you suppose?” Mr. Bedford held a pair of bloodstained gloves. “They were lying on the stairs as if he wanted them found.”

Jarrett cast a glance at Miss Lonsdale. Her face was pale. She met his eyes and raised her chin defiantly, but she dropped back and left the stable. She stayed in view. He could feel her watching him from the yard.