The Duke's Last Hunt (28 page)

“You should have made sure the coachman inspected the carriage before we left.” Lady Malcolm sniffed out the accusation at her husband.

“How was I to know this blasted coach was so poorly built?” rejoined Sir Arthur. He shoved the door open with far too much force. Eliza could see that the failure of their mission was rankling him heavily, and even her mother was on edge. Perhaps they had done the right thing, but the penury waiting for them in London would never take their morals into account.

Sir Arthur was gone five minutes. “How long will it be?” demanded his wife when he returned.

“Dashed if I know! A half hour. An hour.”

Lady Malcolm sniffed her disapproval at her husband’s language. “Must we disembark?”

“Of course you must,” Sir Arthur snapped. “How can they put the carriage up on blocks with you inside?”

Lady Malcolm did not dignify that question with a response. She moved towards the door, holding out her hand and forcing her husband to help her down the stairs while Eliza was left to fend for herself. The two moved off to the porch of the inn to perpetuate their pique more discreetly.

“Ollerton!” said Lady Malcolm. “Please find us some bread or a biscuit to eat. We may be here indefinitely.”

The lady’s maid, who had climbed down from the box, duly trotted off to the nearby bakery. Sir Arthur’s valet had gone off with the coachman to effect the repair. Eliza looked around. She certainly could not stand there alone in the carriage yard. She went into the inn, hoping that her lack of chaperonage in a strange establishment would not be too noticeable.

“Ah, Miss Malcolm!” said a familiar face. The innkeeper, Ned Hornsby, was just wiping down a used table with a rag. “Carriage trouble, eh?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Eliza softly. She wanted nothing more than to banish Henry Rowland from her mind, but here was a friend of his to make those thoughts resurface. A strange sort of friend, too. She had never interacted with an innkeeper before—but then, gentlemen of all ranks in society were more prone to mingling than ladies were.

“May I offer you a drink, miss?” He pulled out a chair for her, at a table near the counter, and Eliza, not knowing what else to do, sat down.

“That’s very kind of you,” said Eliza, heat rising to her cheeks, “but I am not thirsty.” She recalled that she had no pin money in her reticule, and the idea of asking her father for some at the present moment was daunting.

Ignoring her protest, Mr. Hornsby fetched her a glass of lemonade anyway. She stared. It was only after he had gone whistling about his work for a few minutes, that she plucked up the courage to take a drink. It was exactly like something Henry Rowland would have done—assess her needs even better than she could do herself and provide for her without embarrassment. She set the cup down with a clunk. Oh, why must she keep thinking of that profligate!

Her green eyes watched Mr. Hornsby from behind veiled eyelashes. There was no one else in the inn except an old man, taking a nap in the chair in the corner. The solitude should have made her anxious, but instead, it emboldened her.

“Mr. Hornsby,” she said, making up her mind. “I recall that Lord Henry told you on Wednesday that you might tell me some stories about him. Would you oblige?”

The bearded man stopped whistling and his eyebrows shot up into the air. “What do you want to know, miss?” He leaned his elbows on the counter and looked her full in the face.

Eliza’s heart skipped a beat. She had created the opening, and now she must simply have the courage to enter it. “I know this is not a polite question for young ladies to ask, but is Lord Henry friendly with ladies of ill repute?”

The innkeeper laughed loudly. The man in the corner stirred before falling asleep again, and Eliza felt overpowered by an urge to turn and run. “Certainly not, miss,” said the innkeeper. “I’d swear on the holy book itself that Henry Rowland is on the straight and narrow.”

Eliza stared at her hands. “I met a Mrs. Flambard at the house….”

The innkeeper folded his arms and clucked disapprovingly. But the disapproval was not directed at Eliza. “Claimed to be his mistress, did she? I wouldna put it past that one. She’s cagey, she is. The truth of the matter is—well, who am I to speak ill of the dead?”

The only dead Eliza could think of was Rufus, and his reputation certainly held no hallowed spot in her heart. “Please, sir! What do you mean?”

“Mrs. Flambard, as she styles herself, was mistress to the older brother Master Rufus for several years. Set herself up in style at the Dower House on the estate. The whole county knew of it, and Master Henry—he were steward at the time—told Master Rufus it was unbecoming for a duke and a Christian, especially with his mother and sister so close by.”

“Oh!” This description of immoral activities at the Dower House comported with the dinner conversation that had puzzled Eliza several nights ago. “And did Rufus listen?”

“Certainly not! He turned Master Henry out, not La Flambard. She continued in residence for several years and then left the county a few months ago to try her fortunes in London. She came back for a short spell this week, but I saw her on her way again yesterday afternoon.”

Eliza sighed inwardly. So, that tawdry blond creature had nothing to do with Henry. But what about the others? What about the maid she had seen with her own eyes? What about Catherine Ansel?

“I see now,” she said to Mr. Hornsby, aware that her words might be relayed back to Henry Rowland himself, “that I was under a misapprehension regarding Mrs. Flambard. I am thankful to be corrected. There were other incidents that occurred at Harrowhaven during my stay, however, that reinforced this misapprehension. Lord Henry himself, confessed that he had behaved most vilely toward the clergyman’s daughter, Miss Ansel, in past years.”

Ned Hornsby leaned farther forward, his brown eyes wide with concern. “What exactly do you mean, Miss Malcolm?”

Eliza regretted at that moment, that she had said anything of the kind. Her mother, if she were here, would take her violently to task for perpetuating gossip and staining a young lady’s good name. “I’m not sure exactly—apparently, a vital clue in the...murder…was Rufus Rowland’s attempted seduction of Miss Ansel. Lord Henry mentioned as much to me, but then confessed that he had done far worse than his brother. But please, Mr. Hornsby,”—her voice took on a tinge of panic—“say nothing on the topic. I should not have been so free with my speech.”

“Miss Malcolm,” said Ned Hornsby, kneading the wet rag convulsively between his fingers, “on that subject I once swore a solemn oath of silence to a much younger Master Henry. And yet”—he cocked his head, sending his brown beard flying sideways—“he also gave me permission to tell you any stories leading to a better view of his character.” He walked around the counter and pulled out a chair at the table where she sat. “May I sit down?”

Eliza nodded, her heart palpitating with fear and excitement about the revelation to come—and anxiety that her mother or father would choose this moment to walk into the inn.

Mr. Hornsby’s voice quieted till it was barely above a whisper. “When Master Henry, Walt, and I were boys—Walter Turold, you understand—we were a band of lads that nothing could separate. They were both above me in station, but they treated me as if I wasna different from them in the least. The woods were our playground, and we spent many an hour hiding from their tutors among the trees.

“One day, in the middle of a wind storm, we found a downed tree in the forest, sticking out over the brook like a spaniel’s leg. We climbed up on it—e’en though it was not steadily anchored in the soil—and rode it like a pony that had never been broken. The storm worsened. We’d just climbed down to go home before we were missed when little Catie Ansel appeared. She were no more than seven or eight—a pretty little girl with braids and a pinafore. She’d seen us come down from the felled tree and asked if she might go up herself. Then Walter and I shook our heads no, but Henry—he were a rascal as boys can be—taunted her some an’ told her she’d be too scared by far to climb out on the log.”

The mounting tension of the story constricted Eliza’s throat. Oh Henry, what is it you have done?

“She gritted her teeth at that, and did just as he knew she would. She climbed out on the trunk and put one little foot in front of the other until she came out to the end. Then of a sudden, a great gust came up, and the tree lost the last of its bearings and rolled down into the river gulch. Down went little Catie and, I am not ashamed to say, we all shrieked like boys in shortcoats at the sight.”

“What did you do?” asked Eliza, clutching a hand to her heart.

“Walt went down straightway into the water, and lifting a branch, pulled her free. But she had struck her head upon a rock or on a stump, and her blond hair was all bloodied on the side.”

“What did Henry do?” demanded Eliza, not sure if she wanted to know.

“Walt demanded that we carry her home, but Henry was a-feared. He knew the matter was his fault, and he did not want to face her father or his own. He begged me and Walt to never speak of what had transpired. ‘Why?’ said Walt, ‘She’ll rat you out soon enough when she comes to.’ And I couldna help but agree with him. But Henry were desperate, and so we both swore then, on our friendship, to never say what part he’d played.

“Then something had to be done, but neither Henry nor I were willing. Walt told us to go off and cry like a pair of babies, and he carried the girl home himself, half a mile in the storm up to the parsonage.”

“And Miss Ansel?” said Eliza, her white fingers gripping the edge of the table.

“As far as I know, she never remembered what happened that day. She never remembered much of anything. I don’t know how much Walt told the Reverend—I suspect he kept his word to Henry—but from that day on he loathed the sight of him.

“He knew the rivalry between the Rowland brothers, and so he ’came friends with Rufus from this time forward. And when his father died, Walt grew as great a wastrel as Rufus, squandering his fortune on gambling and wenches.”

Ned Hornsby stared at Eliza until she looked him full in the eyes. “And if you think what Henry Rowland did is worse than what Rufus Rowland meant to do to her—to seduce a poor young halfwit for his own pleasures—then I am sorry I’ve broken my word to tell you all this tale. But if you think that Henry acted only in folly as boys will often do, why then, you think the same as me. He did not mean her harm, and it is not in one moment that a man’s character must be measured.”

“Yes, indeed, of course,” said Eliza, her words coming out in a tumble. “Thank you, Mr. Hornsby!” She grabbed his hand and pressed it.

It was at that moment that Lady Malcolm and Sir Arthur entered the inn, and Eliza soon had cause to regret her impulsive response.

“Elizabeth Malcolm!” said her mother, with all the pent up frustration of a late summer thunderstorm.

“We can speak of this later,” said Sir Arthur, intervening before the full force of his wife’s displeasure should break upon them. “The carriage has been righted.” They went outdoors to continue their journey, Eliza feeling in her bones that something else had been righted as well—albeit, now too late.

28

R
ed dust filled the air as Henry’s boots hit the ground in the churchyard. He tied his horse’s reins to an iron ring and strode quickly to the door of the parsonage. Then, he forced himself to rap on the door before his will deserted him.

He was expecting the housekeeper, but the door was answered by Reverend Ansel himself. “Henry!” His nose was still a little swollen from his summer cold, but his diction was clearer than when Henry had seen him last. “What can I do for you, my boy? Or should I say ‘your grace’ now?”

Henry took off his beaver and fingered the brim. “I think ‘boy’ is quite appropriate in this case, Reverend, since what I’m here to talk about is something that happened a long time ago.”

The big man’s eyebrows beetled in confusion, but he threw the door open wide and asked Henry into the parlor. In a moment’s time they were seated on a pair of facing chairs for the conversation that Henry had been dreading nearly half his life.

“Now, what is it?” said the Reverend, folding his legs, leaning back, and clasping his hands over his stomach.

Henry stiffened in anticipation. “You will recall, sir, that ten years ago or so, your daughter suffered an injury during a storm.”

The Reverend lost his relaxed air. “Of course I recall that—I could hardly forget such a thing.”

“Did you…did you ever discover the cause of her injury?”

“Why, yes. She fell from a log and tumbled down the river bank. Walter Turold was there—he saw it happen.”

“He was not the only one there, sir.” Henry felt the small weight on his lungs turn into a massive boulder.

“Oh?” Reverend Ansel leaned forward.

“I was there as well,” said Henry, “and what you may not know is that I…contributed to the accident, though that was not my intention.”

The Reverend breathed in sharply, which led to a fit of coughing. “What do you mean?” he asked, after he had recovered himself.

Henry swallowed, fighting hard against all those years of avoiding the subject to bring it out into the open. “I taunted her. I told her she would never be brave enough to climb on that log. And she—she responded as I knew she would. She did what I dared her to, and she fell.”

The Reverend opened his mouth and stared dumbfounded for a moment. “Henry, I never—”

“I made Walter swear not to tell. And, as far as I know, he kept the promise.”

“That he did,” said Reverend Ansel, placing his large hands on his knees. His breath became labored. “He bears many things in silence that belong to others.”

“It was wrong of me!” said Henry. “Wrong of me to do it, wrong of me to hide it, and wrong of me to ask him to hide it too. I should have come to you that day. I should have come to you any day these ten years since. But now, so late, I am here at last. Can you forgive me, sir, for the harm I did your daughter?”

The Reverend sighed. “I already have, my boy. You did wrong, but nothing nearly as wrong as what…what others have done.”

“Then you are not angry with me?”

“No more than I am angry with God. He created the circumstances—the temptation, the storm, our own frailty. What else could we have done but what we did?”

Henry shifted uncomfortably. He felt—he knew—that he could have done very much differently. He stood up, hat in hand. “I thank you, sir, for your kindness. I will trespass no further on your time.”

Reverend Ansel looked up absently. “Good-bye then, my boy. And remember, with what measure you mete it, so it will be meted to you.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Henry, and he saw himself out of the room. As he untied his horse from the iron ring, he breathed a silent prayer of thanks. There was nothing keeping him here at Harrowhaven any longer, and once he made sure his mother felt secure, he could return to London where Mr. Maurice’s offer was gleaming like a lamp post in the fog.

* * *

After a cursory search through
the village, Pevensey decided that Cecil must not have been feeling strong enough to ride out after all. He mounted his horse and proceeded at a brisk trot to the young magistrate’s manor house. Miss Cecil met him at the door. “My brother was overly optimistic—his head is much worse today.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “But I see you have news, Mr. Pevensey, so I will provide no further descriptions of his invalid state.”

“You are very perceptive, Miss Cecil,” said Pevensey, barely able to keep from bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. “Upstairs?” He reached for the banister.

“No, I let him remove to the parlor.” She led the way through a set of doors to the small room where he had first seen her last night. “But I should warn you—he has covered the floor with crumbs.”

Pevensey immediately spotted Cecil lying back on the couch, his curly black head encompassed by a fresh bandage and propped up with embroidered pillows. “Pevensey,” he groaned, laying a half-eaten biscuit on a nearby tray. “I thought I would be back in the saddle today, but when I tried to come downstairs….”

“You almost fell and smashed your head again,” said his sister succinctly. “And you are under doctor’s orders not to try to get up. How fortunate that Mr. Pevensey is willing to visit to give you the news.”

“What news?” demanded Cecil. “Turold?”

“Still
in absentia
. However, this morning I was presented with an interesting answer to Miss Cecil’s question from last night.”

“Her question?” Cecil blinked.

“Yes—why would Turold fire the second shot? And the answer, of course, is: because he didn’t fire the first one. He needed to discharge his pistol before anyone came upon him.”

“Then the first shot was fired by whom?”

Pevensey cast a sideways glance at Miss Cecil and decided that nothing needed to be kept from her. “Reverend Ansel.”

“What?” Cecil lifted his head too quickly and, giving a yelp of pain, lay back again against the pillow. His sister sent a glare in his direction, easily interpreted as a command to mind his injury. “But he was in Dealsby Cross during the hunt.”

“So we thought. But it turns out that Curate Gray conducted the wedding there. The Reverend was supposed to perform the office, but he turned back on the road—too ill to continue.”

“And when he reached the parsonage—”

“—what a sight awaited him. His housekeeper locked in the broom closet while his simple-minded daughter was being led out the door by the reprobate duke.”

“He would have tried to stop them.” Cecil began to position biscuits on the tray to show the locations of the players in this drama.

“Yes, there must have been a struggle.”

“The Reverend would have been unarmed.”

“But Rufus was not.” Pevensey moved the Reverend’s biscuit closer to the duke’s. “And Ansel seized his pistol.”

“And when the duke refused to let go of his daughter—”

“He shot him in the back!” said Miss Cecil, the pitch of her voice heightened with the excitement.

Pevensey and Cecil stopped the staging of the biscuits to look at her. “Exactly so, Miss Cecil,” said Pevensey, “and I daresay Turold rode up just as Rufus was falling face first into the dusty churchyard.”

“Turold would have apprehended the situation immediately,” said Cecil. “Dismounted, seen that his friend was dead, and known exactly why.”

“The Reverend would have taken the girl inside, then panicked a little. He had just killed a man. He put the duke’s pistol somewhere in the house. The girl saw it.”

“Yes!” said Cecil. “She tried to tell us about it, remember? And he pretended that he had found it in the woods. And of course he had cleaned it by then to disguise that it had been fired.”

“Whose idea was it,” asked Miss Cecil, “to pawn it off as an accident?”

“Turold’s, I wager,” said Cecil. “He hoisted the duke’s body back onto the duke’s horse and led it away from the parsonage toward the clearing. Then, when he was far enough away, he dumped it in the clearing and discharged his own pistol.”

“And shortly afterwards, you arrived,” said Pevensey, “to hear his cock and bull story about firing into the bushes at a stag.”

“And Turold was happy to continue calling it an accident—until we started to ask too many questions. He surmised that the truth was soon to come out, so he preempted the discovery by making his own false confession—and battering me with that fire iron to make his escape. Pevensey!” said Cecil triumphantly. “You’re a wizard!”

Pevensey’s freckled face split into a grin. He was not one to seek congratulations, but he would not object to them being offered, especially in front of the admiring Miss Cecil.

Cecil wrinkled his nose. “And now that we know all this—what do we do?”

Pevensey sighed. “Aye, there’s the rub. Do we have any proof strong enough to counter Turold’s confession?”

The three stared at each other for a long minute.

“No,” said Cecil, gnawing his lip. “Unless the housekeeper gives evidence, I’m afraid that we do not.”

“And I rather doubt that she saw the thing happen,” said Pevensey. “For all she knows, Turold
did
shoot the duke.”

Miss Cecil straightened in her chair. “I cannot believe Reverend Ansel would let someone else take the blame for his actions! He would hardly hang for defending his daughter’s virtue.”

“No, the worst that could happen would be transportation to Australia,” said Pevensey. “And even that is hardly likely. If he pleads clergy and the judge is favorable, he’ll be excused with only a branding on his thumb.”

“But if he
is
transported,” said Miss Cecil, “what would happen to Catie?”

“I suppose that they have no other family in England?”

Miss Cecil shook her head.

“Then she would most likely be placed in an asylum.”

“A horrid thought!” said Miss Cecil, with such feeling that Pevensey suspected she must have toured an asylum at some point and known firsthand the atrocities that lay within.

“Turold must have concurred,” said Cecil, “which is why he laid himself on the altar as the sacrificial lamb.” He put a hand to his bandage and patted it gingerly. “Lud, if he hadn’t decided to baste my head with that fire iron, I should feel a great deal of admiration for that fellow.”

“What will you do?” asked Pevensey.

Cecil cleared his throat. “Do? Yes, I suppose I
am
the magistrate in charge of the case. You’ve provided your expertise, and now the judgment is left with me. I...I need to think on it a while. I am not sure what good a public accusation against Reverend Ansel would do—the whole county has already accepted that Walter Turold is the murderer. But at the same time, it feels a little out of place to hear divine services read by a man who killed your neighbor.”

“Indeed,” said Pevensey. It was not the first time he had followed a case to its conclusion only to find that conclusion too difficult to prove in a court of law. “I shall leave the matter in your hands.”

They were capable hands, that he knew. Cecil, although inexperienced in the world of investigation, had proven himself eager and apt to learn. He would sort the case, as much as it could be sorted. Pevensey had no doubt of that.

“Is this good-bye then?” said Cecil, propping himself up on the sofa. His dark eyes opened wide with regret.

Pevensey smiled. “I think it must be. Now that the case is solved, Sir Richard will be needing me back at Bow Street. Murder might be the exception here in Sussex, but in London it’s as common as coal.”

“Well then,” said Cecil, swinging his legs over the side of the sofa and attempting to rise, “I must shake your hand.” A twinge of pain soon aborted his efforts.

“Lie down, you silly gudgeon,” said his sister, pushing him back into a prone position. “I’m certain you can shake Mr. Pevensey’s hand just as well from the sofa.”

Pevensey came forward and offered his hand. “It has been a pleasure, Cecil.”

“We do not always go to town for the season,” said Cecil, pumping his hand with enthusiasm, “but we were thinking to go this Christmas. I shall look you up at Bow Street.”

“Yes, of course,” said Pevensey smoothly. He had no expectation of such an event occurring. It was not easy to sustain a friendship—or even an acquaintance—with one who moved in such a different sphere of society. “Good day,” he said, and moved toward the door before any further awkwardness or sentiment could intervene.

Miss Cecil followed him into the hallway. “It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. Pevensey.” She offered her hand.

Pevensey felt a powerful twinge of surprise. “Thank you, Miss Cecil,” he said, taking her hand stiffly. He dropped it an instant later, too disconcerted by her frank blue eyes to retain his usual polish. It was fortunate the case had not required him to interview this young lady. He was entirely unable to read her motives—or to read his own at the present moment.

A shadow in front of the door darkened the light coming in through the leaded glass windows. “I believe you have visitors, Miss Cecil,” said Pevensey. It was not a difficult thing to deduce.

“The Bertrams, I daresay.” She lowered her voice. “It’s too early for a morning call, but they must think their errand as important as catching a murderer.”

Pevensey looked at the overblown flower arrangement still gracing the entryway. “Or perhaps they are attempting to catch someone else.”

“Indeed,” said Miss Cecil dryly. She opened the door. “Oh, Mrs. Bertram!” she said enthusiastically. “And Miss Bertram!” They took hands as women do and cooed their delight at seeing one another.

Pevensey slipped out the door past the broad-bosomed matriarch who was just beginning to express her concern for “poor, poor Mr. Cecil” and their inability to wait any longer to call on the invalid.

Miss Cecil’s eyes must have followed him out the door, for before it closed he heard Mrs. Bertram chortling, “What’s this, Edwina? A new beau?” And the more proper Miss Bertram gasping, “Mother! What are you saying? That’s the Bow Street Runner, down from London!”

Pevensey jammed his beaver onto his head with force. Exactly. He was the Bow Street Runner down from London—and London was where he was going, the place where a man like him belonged.