Heart of the Tiger

by Lynn Kerstan

  I was summoned. But Mira could scarcely tell her so, not until she understood it herself. Probably not ever. Leaving the brandy, she took up a pencil, paper, and a book. “Before we leave your father’s study forever, I would like you to sketch for me what you saw, and how things were positioned, and describe for me anything else in the room that you recall.”

  She spoke firmly, worried Cory would object, or question her, and God knew she could not explain why she required the information. But with a little shrug, the girl accepted the book handed her, set a piece of paper atop it, and began to draw.

  After a few moments, Mira sat beside her on the sofa, watching the figures take shape. The door, the desk, the wineglass on the floor. Just around the corner of the desk, the box Cory had tripped over. “What was that made of?” she asked as Cory sketched in the last few lines.

  “Metal. It was on its side, most of it under the desk, and open. My foot went into the corner that was sticking out. He had boxes like it at Longview as well, and the locks require two keys. This one was empty.”

  Cory drew the fireplace and marked how the duke’s body was placed. She marked the blood as well, and the position of the knife. “I forgot this,” she said, pointing to the area of his throat. “His neckcloth and collar were twisted, as if he’d been trying to loose them.”

  There were a few other details as well—what he was wearing, a narrow rope of blood from the corner of his mouth to his chin, the tinderbox fallen to the hearth.

  “That’s all I remember,” she said, handing Mira the paper. “Will you give this to the authorities?”

  “No.” Mira folded the paper, slipped it into her pocket, and went to fetch the brandy. “They must never know you were in the house.” She paused, saw that her hands were shaking, feared her next question. Perhaps she ought to trust her instincts and spare Cory the ordeal. But for Cory to contain her secrets inside her would be immeasurably worse. Of that, Mira had no doubt whatever. Look what keeping her own secrets had cost.

  Pulse hammering, she went back to the sofa and placed a glass on the table beside Cory. “Drink this, if you wish,” she said. “It will help you sleep. But first, I hope you will tell me why it was you set out to kill your father.”

  There. She’d said it. And Cory did not seem the least surprised. More like resigned, as if she’d charged through the worst already, leaving only the cleaning up of the devastation in her wake. Even so, it was a long time before she spoke.

  “If I tell you, how many others must know?”

  “That is for you to say. I’ll not betray anything you have told me tonight, unless I must do so in order to protect you. But I believe that if you confide in me now, you will find it easier to confide in someone else when the time comes that you wish to. It is the first step, I have learned, that seems impossible to take. After that, the journey . . . Well, I cannot be sure. I never got past the beginning.”

  A sad smile curved Cory’s lips. “The ending is not so wonderful, either. But you have been kind, and if you wish to know, I shall tell you.” She took a sip of brandy. “Ever since I can remember, I have wished him dead. Did you know that people called him the Beast? It was true. He was a monster. He beat the servants and struck my mother if she displeased him, or because he was out of temper. Mostly he ignored me and my sister, Catherine, who is three years younger than I, and Mother tried to keep us out of his way. But when I was twelve, he . . . he—”

  Mira held still, scarcely breathing. I did this to you.

  “He said he had a birthday present for me, and took me to his bedchamber, and it hurt so much I could not even cry. It made him angry that I bled, but he said in future I would not. And he said if I told anyone, or even if someone found out without me telling, he would rid himself of us, all of us, and get himself a new family. I thought that meant he would send us away, which I wanted more than anything. But then he laughed, and told me how he’d make it appear an accident, and that no one would even miss us. For Mother’s sake and Catherine’s, I must always do as he wished and try hard to please him. He said he would teach me all the things that pleased him. And from that time on, except when I was away at school, I did whatever he told me.”

  Save for the first words—“when I was twelve”—she had spoken calmly, as if describing a commonplace event. But, twelve. How had she endured it?

  “It is strange,” Cory said reflectively, “that when there is no other choice, one can become accustomed to nearly anything. I did try once to starve myself, thinking that if I made myself ill or ugly, he wouldn’t want me. But I only succeeded in terrifying Mother, who took me to the seashore until I was well again. I was happy there. Every day I thought of walking into the sea, but it would have meant missing the next day, and the next. And if I could not die when living was unbearable, how could I give up my life in the very moments I was tasting happiness?”

  Another sip of brandy. “But I have not answered your question. In the past year, my father paid me little attention. I was growing too old, I think. And a few weeks ago, he told Mother that she and I were to open the house in Scotland and remain there, which I rejoiced at until he said he was bringing Catherine home from school. I knew then he meant to do to her what he’d done to me. So you see, I had to kill him. It was the only way to protect her.”

  Cory bowed her head, done with her story, come to the end of a long nightmare. “What happens now?” she asked in a dull voice. “Might I sleep a little first?”

  “Of course. I shall help you settle in bed, and David Fairfax and I will decide how best to proceed. Your mother must be told you are safe, and then I expect we shall spirit you both out of London for a short time. No one must know either of you was here when the duke was murdered.”

  “You should take my mother away,” Cory said. “Above all things, I want her and Catherine to keep clear of me. It’s possible I was seen, and there are servants at Longview who know what my father and I did together. Perhaps in London as well. Suspicion is certain to fall on me. I left some of my belongings in the shed, and when the house is searched, it will be clear someone was hiding there. Really, things will go better for everyone if I simply take myself to the authorities.”

  Mira felt her throat constrict. “But you did nothing wrong. And if you bring attention to yourself, they might draw the wrong conclusions and fail to seek the real killer.”

  Cory looked up, her eyes bleak with resignation. “Yes. That’s precisely what I want. For all my determination, I might have failed. Probably I would have failed, and what he’d have done to me would be infinitely worse than anything I am facing now. But my friend, because the person who got to him before me is my greatest friend in the world, spared us all. Now Catherine will be safe, and my mother can be at peace. If I confess, and all is done swiftly, it will be over. And I will have saved my friend.”

  Horrified, Mira shook her head. “You cannot mean to take responsibility for your father’s death. Think how your mother and sister would feel. And it would not be so easy as you imagine. You would have to perjure yourself.”

  “Good God, what matters a lie to someone who set out to kill her own father? As for the rest, there will be a little sadness, I know, and scandal as well. But at the end of the day, my family will be better off without me.”

  After a moment she began to tremble, and wrapped her arms around herself. “Don’t prevent me, I beg you. Let me do what I must. I am nothing. There can be no life for me now, no purpose. I am ruined, and empty, and immeasurably afraid. I wish only to disappear and be forgotten. I wish not to feel anything, ever again.”

  And then the tears began to wash down her face, and she was shaking as if she’d fly apart. Mira rushed to her side and gathered the despairing girl into her arms. She was keening for a childhood ripped from her, for all the years of brutality and shame she ought not to take upon herself. But she did. Mira knew it, and understood,
and as she held the sobbing Corinna, she came to an irrevocable decision.

  Sometime later, when the shivering began to abate and the weeping quieted, Mira heard, as if from somewhere far away, a gentle melody being played on the harpsichord. It sounded to her like birdsong, and the sea rustling over pebbles and shells, and rain on flower petals.

  Cory lifted her head, turned watery eyes to Mira’s face. “Do you hear music?”

  “That is Mr. Fairfax, and he is playing your grandmother’s harpsichord. She gave it to your Uncle Michael, and before he went out to India, he gave it to David.”

  “I never met him. My uncle. He left before I was born.”

  “He has returned to England, and it was to him your mother came after you ran away. He has been looking for you.”

  “Will he take care of my mother and Catherine, do you think?”

  “I’m sure of it. And he’ll care for you as well.” Mira brushed Cory’s shaggy hair from her face. “You mustn’t let him intimidate you, though. He can be a bit gruff, and I’m afraid he looks rather like your father. It’s best to be prepared for that. The resemblance quite startled me when first we met.”

  “I don’t want to meet him. I told you what I want to do.”

  “Cory, in this you cannot have your way. Your father was an evil man who did terrible things, but he has no power over you now.” Mira handed her the brandy glass. “You have been, for ever so long, incalculably brave. This is no time to give up. When you wake tomorrow, you shall begin your new life. At first it will be difficult, but not so bad as you fear, and you have family and friends to support you.”

  “Will you be there?”

  I did this to you. “My father is very ill,” she said carefully, “and I must care for him. Mr. Fairfax and Miss Helena Pryce will see you reunited with your mother and provide you a story to tell if you are questioned. You may trust them. Mr. Fairfax has been my friend since I was a child, and Miss Pryce is something of a marvel. I think the two of you will rub along famously. Do precisely as they tell you, Cory, and all will be well.”

  Cory, looking doubtful, finished her brandy and set the glass aside. “When we arrived, Mr. Fairfax called you Mira, but you haven’t told me who you are. Is that another secret?”

  “Dear me, no. I ought to have introduced myself.” Mira went to the bed and began turning down the covers. “I am Miranda Holcombe, but my friends call me Mira. I hope you will.”

  “Holcombe?” Cory appeared beside her. “A family by that name lives close by to Longview. Or used to. I never met any of them, and I think they’ve all gone now.”

  “Yes. My father and I are the only ones left, and we departed several years ago.”

  A silence. “Did you know my father, then?”

  “I knew of him, of course. I had a cousin who knew him well, but he died in India.” She slipped the dressing gown off Cory’s narrow shoulders. Underneath was one of David’s nightshirts, the sleeves rolled up and the hem dragging on the carpet. “In you go.”

  When Cory was under the covers, looking small and, for the first time, frightened, Mira sat beside her and took her hand. “Lady Corinna, there is something of great importance I must say to you. From this time on, you must tell no one what you have told me tonight. Not the authorities if you are questioned, not your mother, not even Mr. Fairfax or Miss Pryce. No matter what occurs, no matter how greatly you feel compelled to tell the truth, you will withhold it. Moreover, you will persuade those who badger you for information that you have none to give. You are clever, and you will find a way to satisfy them while revealing nothing. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. All except the reason why you ask this of me.”

  “And that, for now, is my secret. Will you give your word of honor to do as I have asked? It means that no matter what occurs, no matter how difficult it is or how wrong it seems, you must keep your promise.”

  “What if I don’t promise? What happens then?”

  Obstinate, incisive, extraordinary. So much like her uncle. “I don’t know,” Mira said honestly. “But consider what you set out to do in order to protect your sister. By assuming guilt for a murder you did not commit, you will lay on her a great burden of responsibility for the consequences. Were you not willing to kill for her? You are now willing to die for her. I am asking you to live for her, Cory, and to give a promise it will take great courage to keep.”

  “Well, if you put it that way.” Squeezing Mira’s hand, she flashed a brandy-driven smile. “Word of a Keynes. No, that has never been worth a cup of dirt. My word, Mira Holcombe, and I shall keep it.”

  Mira sat with her a few minutes longer, until certain the girl was asleep. Then she extinguished all but one lamp and hurried downstairs to speak with David.

  It was another difficult, prevaricating conversation, but at the end, she was fairly certain he believed what she wished him to. And because David sometimes got confused when he was nervous, she wrote out preliminary instructions for Miss Pryce. From here on out, all would be in their hands.

  “You’re sure Lady Corinna didn’t kill him?” David inquired—again—as he escorted her to the street.

  “Absolutely sure. Her long journey and the shock of stumbling upon her father’s body has disordered her mind, which accounts for her confusion. There is no doubt that she is entirely innocent. Also fragile, so I count on you to stand as her protector.”

  At David’s gesture a hackney pulled over. “I shall,” he said, handing her into the carriage. “But who, Mira, is to protect you?”

  Chapter 18

  With her course firmly laid out, Mira required no protector. But she did require help, and while it mortified her to hold out her begging bowl to virtual strangers, pride was the least of what she meant to surrender now. So after a few hours of restless sleep, she rose before first light to pen letters to Mr. Callendar, Helena Pryce, Michael Keynes, and Lady Jessica Duran.

  Next, she packed up her father’s clothing and those things he would consider essential, hoping that someone, perhaps Beata, would be kind enough to ship the rest to Mr. Callendar in Tunbridge Wells. She packed her own belongings as well, those that would fit in two portmanteaus, moving silently so as not to wake her father in the next room.

  All the while, she plotted her story and mapped out what bits of it she would tell straightaway, and which details she would withhold. The longer she kept the authorities preoccupied with her, the better.

  And amid her plotting—My fault. My fault. It was a constant refrain. She had always known she’d done wrong. What she had failed to imagine were the consequences, the destruction and pain wrought by her cowardice. By her failures.

  At eight o’clock the breakfast tray arrived. Following her usual routine, she fed her father, gave him a sponge bath, and dressed him, talking all the while about her drive with Lord Varden and the people she had met in Hyde Park. It felt to her a century had passed since then. She fended off his interest in the dinner she had supposedly shared with Varden, and was greatly relieved when Hari Singh came by earlier than expected.

  On her return last night, he had agreed to take Mr. Holcombe up to the villa for the day, while she attended to a matter of business. She’d failed to mention that she wouldn’t be returning. But Helena Pryce would come by sometime later, to assume responsibility for her father and see him transported to Tunbridge Wells.

  All was in place, as best she could manage it. She asked Mr. Singh to put her letters with the outgoing post, although she’d held back the one for Mr. Keynes. It would be left where Mr. Singh could not fail to notice it when he returned.

  She longed to embrace her father, dared not risk it, and settled for a smile and a wave as he was wheeled from the cottage. Then she finished packing his things and placed his luggage next to hers. Nothing more to do, no excuse to put it off any longer. She donned her cloak and was tying the
ribbons of her black bonnet when someone knocked loudly at the door.

  Bother!

  A large man with pouchy eyes and a crooked nose filled the doorway, looking unhappy to see her. “Miss Miranda Holcombe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your presence is required by the chief magistrate,” he said stiffly, “concerning the matter of the death of His Grace the Duke of Tallant by foul and criminal means.”

  She nearly laughed. “That is . . . convenient. Might I fetch my reticule before we leave?”

  “Aye, but I must be coming with you.”

  The reticule lay on a nearby table, so they were soon on their way across the lawn in the direction of the river, and from there the long way around to Paradise Row. He was sparing her the embarrassment of encountering someone at the Palazzo, she understood, grateful for the kindness. And then she saw a sleek curricle, a familiar pair of white horses, and the handsome, solemn man striding forward to greet her.

  “Miss Holcombe, please know I deeply regret this misunderstanding and am certain it will be cleared up after a few words with the magistrate. He granted me leave to escort you, on the condition we do not speak about the . . . the—”

  “Murder? This gentleman has already explained why I am in custody, Lord Varden. You needn’t come along. I am quite prepared to follow the usual procedure, whatever that might be.”

  “It is too late for that, I’m afraid. The patrolman has only his horse, and there is no hackney in sight. Besides, my presence is required there as well.”

  She would rather have done this alone. She was accustomed to being alone. Save for her father, of course, and she must not think of him now. His last few months of life were to be made unhappy—there was no other way—in exchange for a girl’s frail hope of healing and a new life.