The Eden Passion (31 page)

He gaped at the appalling scene. Unwittingly he had set grim forces in motion by coming here. He still could not even imagine why the two, Lady Eden and the boy, had reacted as violently as they had.

Well, there was no time to mutter to himself. There was a need for positive action. But what kind? Under ordinary circumstances he knew precisely what to do. Murder had been done, and Morley Johnson had been an eyewitness. Under normal circumstances he would take the young man into immediate custody and deliver him before nightfall to the authorities in Exeter.

Under normal circumstances this is precisely what he would do, what English law dictated that he do. But! How often he had heard Sir Claudius Potter say that the Edens were a law unto themselves, and now that Morley Johnson was filling the role of Eden solicitor, it might behoove him to acquaint himself with Eden law as thoroughly as he was acquainted with English law.

He felt his mind move into action, providing him with a welcome distraction from the bleak scene at his feet, the young man at last finding the energy to remove himself from his close proximity to the dead Humphrey Hills, although that energy failed him as soon as he reached the first chair and he now sat slumped sideways.

Morley watched him, then stealthily slid the bolt on the library door, making certain that no one entered the death chamber until he'd had time to think through to a course of action which would be beneficial to all.

Beneficial to all! There were the key words. If Morley's perceptions were accurate, Lady Eden surely would not appreciate seeing

her newly discovered and handsome son hauled unceremoniously off to prison. And no Eden, he recalled Sir Claudius Potter saying, enjoyed the public spotlight, particularly since the days of Lord Thomas Eden and his obsession for the fisherman's daughter.

And what could be more public, more humiliating than a murder trial, the case perhaps even moved to London due to the importance of the principals involved.

Good heavens! As the hideous projections whirled out of Morley's mind, he glanced at the boy. His life and future in England would be ruined. He would have to emigrate after prison, an act which undoubtedly would cause his mother great grief.

No! There would be no custody, nor any hurried trip to Exeter, no "prisoner" to deliver to the authorities.

Then what? Then concealment, although there were risks there as well. He could do it, pass the corpse off as the victim of a domestic accident, and in the process forge the final bond of dependency and trust with the Eden family. They would be in his debt, including the young man who might conceivably rise to a position of considerable power within the family.

"Mr. Eden, I beg you listen," he began urgently. "You must leave here immediately. Pack only what you can safely carry on horseback, wait in the stables for cover of night, then ride directly to London."

He paused for a response from the young man. When none seemed forthcoming, he shook him soundly by the shoulders, fearing him no longer. "Can you sit a horse? Answer mel"

At last the young man looked up. "Yes . . ."

"Then good. You can't stay here. I want no trace of you when the constable arrives. Do you understand what I'm saying to you? Look at me! Do you understand?"

Slowly the young man nodded, though his eyes fell on the sprawled body of Humphrey Hills at his feet. "Is . . . he dead?" he asked.

Morley nodded broadly. "Oh, I assure you he is dead, Mr. Eden."

In spite of the need for haste, Morley felt a strong wisp of moral outrage. "I begged you, sir, repeatedly to cease. I even tried physically to dislodge you. But to no avail. And now that the deed is done, we have the entire family to consider. And as you have only recently been proven a member of this noble family, I offer you my advice and assistance. If you will depart here tonight under cover of darkness, I believe I can conceal the true nature of the crime." He paused for emphasis, wanting to make certain that the boy under-

stood precisely what he was doing on his behalf. "It will not be easy," Morley went on, hovering close, "and you must understand that I am jeopardizing my own career, my own future as well."

He broke off speaking, pleased to see the new expression on the young man's face, one of gratitude. Still, when he seemed incapable of movement, Morley grasped him by the shoulders, urging him to, "Hurry, I beg you. Pack only what you need, and wait in the stables until nightfall. Then, make for London."

"And . . . there?" the boy stammered, as though at last beginning to understand.

Momentarily stymied, Morley gaped down on him. Would everything be left for him to figure out? "Surely you have friends," he scolded. Then an idea occurred. "The woman Elizabeth," he whispered. "The little house in Bermondsey would be perfect. Go there."

At last the young man moved under his own volition, though it was merely a step away from Morley's side, where apparently the sight of Humphrey Hills stopped him again. "I . . . did not ... intend to. . ."

Enough, Morley thought. Time was passing, the corpse at their feet growing colder. In London now, scientific advances were such that a medical inspector frequently could determine the approximate hour of death. Morley prayed that such advances had not yet made their way to the rural western edge of the country, for it was his plan to saturate Mr. Hills with brandy and have him drunkenly fall against the table about four hours from now, whereupon Morley would sound the alarm, send a courier for the nearest authority, wait "grief-stricken" for the death certificate and then bury the man as quickly as possible in the first public cemetery. Of course, in addition to all his other responsibilities, he would have to pen an aggrieved and diplomatic note to Mr. Bobby Berents at the Mermaid in Shropshire, and pray to God that the man did not force an inquiry.

Again he turned his attention toward the distraught young man. "You must hurry," he implored. "I will not sound the alarm until you are safely removed from here."

Morley waited until the young man had disappeared up the staircase. Then, confident that everything was going precisely as he had planned it, he slammed the library door, slid the bolt and sat awkwardly on the window seat, trying to keep his eyes off the lifeless body.

Sweet God! Who could have predicted this? As his agitation mounted, only one thought brought him comfort, the realization that though his present plight was hazardous, if he could make his way safely through this storm, he might just conceivably face a lifetime free from any other storms. Or if they came, he need have no fear of them, for the Eden wealth was an enormous, all-protective umbrella, and with his actions here today he had, for all time, earned himself a privileged position under that rich shelter.

The trick of life, according to his mentor, Sir Claudius Potter, was to take black disaster and convert it into golden opportunity.

For the first time in several hours Morley smiled, pleased at how skillfully he had mastered that lesson.

He knew what he had done.

He knew better than anyone what he had done, had been aware of the very moment when life had departed from the despicable little man's body, and even now he recalled how regretful he had been that there had not been additional life to extinguish.

As John rounded the landing on his way to the third-floor corridor, he stopped and leaned over the banister, thinking with extraordinary calmness that he was a murderer.

As he neared the third-floor landing, he heard a mix of voices coming from the far end of the corridor outside her chamber door. It was as though every servant in Eden Castle had selected that spot in which to wail.

Keeping to the safety of the shadows, John longed to join them, considered even pushing his way through them and demanding entrance to her chambers. But he didn't. It was a reluctance as complex as the day. Instead he felt his way down the corridor to his chamber door, pushed it open and slipped inside.

He moved his hands over the wooden door as though longing for a way to seal it. Had the man named Hills spoken the truth? Was Harriet the beautiful lady who, according to his father, had died giving birth to him?

"Damn him!" he whispered to the door, seeing his father's face before him, a lying face now. "Damn him!" he cried, and lifted both fists and drove them into wood.

Behind him he heard a voice. "If it does any good, 111 come and help . . ."

He whirled on the voice, thinking he was alone. Then he saw him

standing in the far corner of the room, the long, lean figure of Dana, the old footman who had first befriended him.

"I did not send for you," John snapped, turning away before the man read his face too deeply.

"No, but I'm here anyway," Dana replied.

"Then leave," John commanded. "I have no need of you."

Slowly Dana emerged from the shadows. "I suspect you will never have greater need of me."

His anger still rising, John shouted, "Get out."

When still the man refused to obey, John lunged at him, more than willing to duplicate the crime he'd just committed downstairs.

But Dana offered no resistance. In fact, as John sprang forward, the man appeared to open his arms as though to receive his assailant, and at last the one-sided grappling match changed in nature, and as John felt Dana's arms move around him, he suddenly grasped the man and pressed against him in an awkward embrace.

All at once John felt a need so acute that his legs refused to support him, and Dana was still there, going to the floor with him, holding him tight until at last John had no choice but to let the man cradle him as though he were a child.

How long he lay thus in Dana's protective shelter, he had no idea. When he opened his eyes the sun was falling in crisscross patterns on the floor. Then certain imperatives filled his mind, and still aware of the hand resting lightly on his forehead, he spoke. "I must leave here, Dana," he murmured, and felt the force of the words for the first time as he spoke them aloud. Leave here. Leave her.

Dana agreed. "It would be best."

"Have you. . . seen her?" John asked.

"I have. Briefly. I brought the surgeon up."

"Isshe. . . ?"

The man seemed to hesitate. "She will survive."

John at last dragged himself upward into a sitting position. He leaned back against the side of the bed as Dana was doing, both of them seated upon the floor. A thought occurred to him. He wondered how much Dana knew, how much any of the servants knew.

He returned the man's gaze, seeing neither condemnation nor accusation. Finally the need to share the weight became too great and he asked quietly, "How much do you know?"

A red tinge seemed to creep up the sides of Dana's face. He lowered his head. "I know little, sir, and prefer to keep it that way."

John understood, though still within him there was some terrible

need to confess. But better judgment intervened. There were only two who must share this burden of guilt, who would live with it every day of their lives.

He left the bed and went to the wardrobe, where on the floor in the corner he found the satchel with which he had arrived. He emptied it of the old garments, too small for him now, and refilled it with a single change of clothes.

"Where will you go?" Dana asked.

"Back to London, where I came from."

He thought he saw an objection forming on the man's face. "You belong here," Dana muttered.

"I'll return one day," John promised.

An awkward moment followed, the two of them surveying each other. As though to break the mood, Dana commenced to fish through his pockets, his manner gruff. "I doubt seriously if you have a shilling on you."

Before John could protest, Dana was thrusting a pound note upon him, shoving it at last into his top pocket.

"I'll repay you one day," John promised.

"Don't want repayment," the man grumbled. He glanced up at John. "A word now and then, though, a letter. . ."

How curious, John mused, that sadness that always invested love. Now he found that he could say nothing, and merely dropped the satchel to the floor and reached out for his friend and clasped him to him.

"Well, now"—John smiled, hearing the man's sniffling and realizing for both their sakes, he must depart immediately—"one last favor, Dana," he asked. "I need a horse, a good sturdy one to carry me to London. I trust your judgment. Would you prepare one for me and have him waiting outside the door in the east wall?"

Dana nodded, as though grateful for the chance to flee the room. Then he was gone, letting in the sounds of mourning coming from the end of the corridor, shutting them out again as he closed the door behind him.

John stood motionless in the center of the room, a need still strong within him. If only he might see her for one last time. He did not want to cause her additional pain, and still remembered the manner in which she had lifted her hands to his approach in the Great Hall.

Slowly he reached for his satchel, amazed that the love which he

felt for her was still intact. If only she might have lived with the message, the knowledge that he was. . .

He hurried to the door and stopped for a final look at his elegant chambers, and felt again a slow rising hate for his father. His judgment of the man had always been that he was foolish and weak. Now he must add deception and dishonor to that list of epithets. How would it have hurt him to tell John the truth, that the beautiful lady who had given him life was not dead, but living at Eden?

But he hadn't, and now the events of this day were his father's burdens as well as John's, his fault, his guilt.

Weakened by his hate, he stepped rapidly out into the corridor, his eyes moving immediately toward the confusion outside her chambers. From that distance he observed that the crowd had diminished, only Harriet's most loyal and trusted maids remaining.

He held his position, still debating with himself whether or not to invade their grief, when suddenly the door to her chambers opened and he saw Aggie Fletcher step out. She appeared exhausted, her face even from that distance reflecting the horror of the room she'd recently departed.

Once Aggie had been an ally. Surely she would grant him a moment's access to the chamber, permit him to look upon her one last time.

On this note of hope he started forward, but after three steps he stopped. She'd been in the process of wiping her brow with the hem of her apron when she saw him. At first a look of sad pleasure had crossed her face.

But it was the expression immediately following that caused him to halt his progress, a peculiar expression, as though defying him to come closer, the angles of her stern face cast downward in condemnation, as though she knew.

Before such a wall of suspicion, he had no defense. Then he was running, determined to put as much distance as possible between himself and the nightmare that was now Eden Castle, not consciously knowing where he was going, where he might safely pass the last few remaining hours of daylight before his departure from Eden.

But his steps took him there, through the blur of the castle, out through the narrow gate in the east wall, across the headlands, his breath catching in his throat as he plunged into woods, then at last seeing it up ahead, their temple of love.

Breathless, he dropped his jacket and satchel and fell to ground,