by Lynn Kerstan
With little choice, she let Varden hand her into the curricle and endured the drive to Bow Street, which he was considerate enough to let pass in silence. She used the time to shape new layers of ice over the core of ice at her heart.
When they arrived, the earl offered his hand to help her alight. Cold as winter, she accepted it. “You will be questioned by Sir Richard Burnie,” he said, as if the name tasted sour on his tongue. “He is ambitious, autocratic, and reputed to be vindictive if he thinks he’s been made to look a fool. But in this matter, he is sure to tread carefully. One misstep could throw him out of an office he achieved only a short time ago, and if ever there was a case apt to seize the public’s attention, this is it. Under such scrutiny, he will be both fair and relentless.”
And she would be lying and delaying, which was certain to displease Sir Richard.
Well, too bad for him. “Thank you,” she said as Varden led her through the tangle of rooms and passageways to the door of the chief magistrate’s office.
Small eyed and pudgy faced, Sir Richard regarded her the way he might a bug pinned to a blotter. “Sit there,” he said with a faint Scottish burr, pointing her to a straight-backed chair across from him. “You may remain, Lord Varden, on condition you speak only if addressed. As for you, Miss Holcombe, let us come directly to the point. You will account for your activities between four of the afternoon yesterday until the present time.”
“I recall nothing of importance,” she said.
“Speak up. The clerk cannot hear you.”
At his gesture, she looked to her right and saw a young man seated at a small writing table, his pen poised to record the proceedings. “I can speak no louder than I am doing now,” she said. “Perhaps he should move closer.”
Another gesture from Sir Richard, and the clerk began to relocate his implements and the writing table itself. During the interval, she took note of several items arrayed on the desk in front of her—a folded cloth, a sheet of paper covered with writing, an open metal box.
Sir Richard, clearly a man of little patience, was running out of his small supply. “Seeing that your recall is poor, allow me to refresh your memory. Shortly before four o’clock, having been left off at Number Five, Paradise Row, otherwise known as Palazzo Neri, by the Earl of Varden, you entered a hackney coach and instructed the driver to conduct you to Berkeley Square. For that information we have the testimony of Lord Varden, who saw you enter the hackney, and who was able to provide a description of the driver.”
He pushed the sheet of paper closer to her. “This is the recorded testimony of John Crabb, also called Big Red because of his distinctive appearance, and signed by him this morning. According to his account, you asked him to wait, but after doing so for a considerable time, he accepted another fare and departed.”
Considerable time was a blatant lie, but she could deny none of the rest. “I did go to Berkeley Square,” she said.
“And what did you do there?”
“I have nothing more to say.”
“Are you aware the Duke of Tallant resides on Berkeley Square, and that he was murdered yesterday afternoon?”
“The officer who took me into custody made reference to the murder.”
“Did you enter the duke’s residence?”
“I have nothing more to say.”
The magistrate’s face reddened. “By God, young woman, you will answer my questions. Failure to do so is an admission of guilt.”
“I am unacquainted with the law, sir. But I don’t believe I have admitted anything other than riding in a hackney to Berkeley Square.”
Sir Richard glanced behind her to where the earl was standing, and when he spoke again, his tone was milder. “Since being roused from my bed with news that servants had discovered His Grace’s murdered body, I have undertaken a swift and thorough investigation. Although it is still in the preliminary stages, a number of individuals have already given testimony. Everything I have learned thus far points to your involvement. This is your opportunity, Miss Holcombe, to spare yourself a great deal of trouble. Can you provide witnesses that you were elsewhere at the time of the killing?”
“What time was that, sir?”
He ground his teeth. “The coroner has not yet completed his examination. But as we already know your whereabouts from two o’clock, when Lord Varden took you driving, until approximately four-thirty, when you arrived in Berkeley Square, why do you not begin there and tell us where you went and with whom you spent time?”
This was going well, she thought. Things were playing out as she had hoped they would. He was convinced of her guilt, but now understood he would be forced to prove it, step-by-step. “I have nothing more to say,” she repeated, looking him directly in the eyes.
“Not from lack of knowing anything,” he fired back. Taking hold of the folded cloth, which appeared to be a napkin, he unwrapped the object within it and held up a dagger, its ebony hilt embellished with a single ruby. “Do you recognize this?”
“It is a knife.”
“Your knife. We have testimony that you attacked His Grace with this very knife not long ago.”
Stunned, she took care to maintain her composure. How could anyone have known what happened in the linen closet? She’d no intention of denying the knife was hers, although she had meant to postpone the admission until a search of her possessions revealed three daggers exactly like it, except for the gemstones—one emerald, one sapphire, and one diamond. The matched set, sent from India by her cousin Robert, had been contained in an enameled gold case, but she’d given that to Helena Pryce to sell for her. Dear heavens, she was tired. Her mind had begun to wander, thinking of her knives. For the first time in more than a year, she had left off the sheath in her glove and the one usually bound to her thigh. She’d assumed the police would search her, but so far, it hadn’t occurred to anyone that she might be carrying a weapon. The very same people who reckoned her a murderess—
She became aware of Lord Varden’s voice and his hand resting protectively on her shoulder. “. . . badger the young woman,” he was saying. “I must protest, Sir Richard. The tale of Miss Holcombe slashing the duke’s hand with a knife is no more than hearsay.”
Oh, don’t start defending me now. She hadn’t wanted to admit so much so soon, but Lord Varden was trying to divert suspicion from her, which was the last thing she wished. “But it is quite true,” she said. “The duke accosted me, I drew out the knife to protect myself if he persisted, and he wrenched it from my grasp. In the process, his hand was slightly cut.”
“He returned the knife to you?”
I ought to have admitted nothing. “He kept it, sir.”
“And I suppose you have not seen it since then, until today.”
“If you say so.”
“No, no. What do you say, Miss Holcombe? Did you drive this blade into the Duke of Tallant’s heart?”
“I have nothing more to tell you, Sir Richard.”
Lurching to his feet, the magistrate looked about to launch into a tirade when something caused him to snap his mouth shut and storm from the room. The door slammed shut, and she glanced around to see that Lord Varden was gone as well. Beside her, the clerk, his face the color of a ripe red apple, was scribbling furiously.
Although she hadn’t dared to eat a bite of breakfast, she feared she was going to be sick. She glanced down at her hands, still folded calmly on her lap, and wondered how it was that separate parts of her were having such different reactions to all of this. Over the years she had achieved a degree of self-control that disturbed her father and kept others at a distance, but she had never altogether mastered her feelings. They kept breaking out, in one fashion or another, like prisoners refusing to stay where she’d caged them.
At some other time, with only herself to bear witness, she would open the gates and let them all
run riot. She ought to experience, in every way, the consequences of what she had done and left undone. How could there be forgiveness without suffering? To deny herself the pain, the terror, and the loneliness she deserved would be yet another act of cowardice, like the one for which she was condemned.
She must pay for her sin. Not the murder, although for that she was surely guilty by intention, if not by fact. It was an older sin for which she was to be punished, a sin that had cast a long shadow over her life and, she should have realized, over the lives of others as well. Their suffering multiplied her guilt a thousandfold.
Yes, she was deathly afraid of what was to come, but she also welcomed it. At last there would be atonement. Absolution. Perhaps, at the end, peace of heart.
Sir Richard returned, accompanied by a stern-faced Lord Varden and the officer who had taken her into custody. “Well, well, Miss Holcombe. It appears you have a champion. While it is my own inclination to send you directly to Newgate, where the conditions have a way of inducing cooperation, Lord Varden has persuaded me to allow you a respite here, where you may contemplate the advantages of speaking the truth. Meantime, I am sending to have your residence searched for evidence.”
“Will your father be there?” said the earl gently. “Shall I bring him to my home until this matter is resolved?”
His kindness, she feared, would undo her. “Thank you,” she replied in a cool voice, “but I have arranged for him to be put in the care of his physician.”
Sir Richard scowled. “Because you were expecting to be arrested, Miss Holcombe?”
“Because he is dying, sir.”
Color flagged his plump cheeks. “That is regrettable. But I must say, you have picked a pretty time to commit murder, young woman. Well, you will have several hours to think on what you have done. Go along with the officer.”
In silence, her escort led her up a flight of stairs and locked her in a small, damp room with a square wooden table, two armless chairs, and an adjoining privy room. A barred window looked out to a brick wall.
The room was cold. She paced for a time, to warm herself and ease the tension in her limbs, pleased that more hours were to pass with attention focused on herself. More hours for Cory and her mother to escape London, for Helena to arrange her father’s journey to Tunbridge Wells, for Lord Varden to become reconciled to her guilt.
After a while, bundled in her cloak, she sat on a chair and sent her thoughts into the empty place where she had spent so many days and nights, a place of no thinking, no sensation, a landscape in which she had nothing to do but endure.
The door swung open, hitting the wall with a thud.
Mira, startled from the half-conscious state in which she had passed the time—she’d no idea how much time—looked up to see the chief magistrate glowering at her.
“You are free to go,” he said as if dredging the words from the bottom of a mine. “Lord Varden will convey you home. I won’t pretend I’m glad of it. To the contrary, I am not at all satisfied with your failure to account for your whereabouts last night. But under the circumstances, Miss Holcombe, I have no choice but to release you.”
Her heart gave a lurch. “M-might I ask what circumstances you speak of?”
“Why, the murderer has confessed.”
Oh, Cory, Cory. Could you not keep your promise? “I see.”
“Walked into the police court on Great Marlborough Street two hours ago.” He sounded disgruntled. Robbed of a successful investigation with himself at the helm. “Word just now came to me, not five minutes ahead of the broadsheets. The news is already out, by God, and the rabble are clamoring for a public hanging.”
“Oh, you mustn’t.” She bit her lip. “That would be horrible.”
“I’ve no doubt he would agree. Better the ax than—”
He? She drew a relieved breath. Not Cory, then.
Sir Richard was still speaking. “I put him safe in the Tower for the time being. It will be a speedy proceeding, I expect, what with the confession. No point dragging things out to please the scandalmongers.”
“Who is it, sir, that killed the duke?”
“What? Didn’t I say? Him that’s the new duke, but he won’t be that for long. Michael Keynes it was, killed his own brother.”
Chapter 19
“I wish to see him,” Mira told Lord Varden shortly after he had threaded his curricle through the crowd surrounding Number Four, Bow Street, where they’d come for a glimpse of the duke who had killed a duke.
On every street corner, boys hawked broadsheets and hastily printed newspapers emblazoned with garish headlines. CAIN AND ABEL IN LONDON! DUKE OF TALLANT SLAIN WITH DAGGER! LAST TALLANT DUKE CONFESSES MURDER!
“It isn’t possible for you to see him,” said Varden. “Nor would it be wise. Sir Richard remains suspicious of you, and the surprising confession delivered to his subordinate has frustrated his ambition to use this case to his advantage. Now he chafes to uncover something overlooked by everyone else. If he can find a way to implicate you, Miss Holcombe, he will pounce on it.”
She quite agreed with his assessment of the situation, except that to her, it was irrelevant. “Nonetheless, I must speak with Mr. Keynes. Can you arrange it?”
“I will not. How could I agree to help you do yourself harm?”
“You mean well, I know. But I do not wish to be protected. Nor am I in league with Mr. Keynes, who will not be pleased to see me appear. Even so, if Sir Richard is correct that he will be quickly brought to execution, I cannot let pass my last chance to recover the property stolen from my family by his brother.”
Lord Varden whistled softly. “I was unaware you had such a quarrel with Tallant. It is as well you keep that information private, Miss Holcombe. Sir Richard will seize upon it as a motive for conspiring to kill the duke, if not carrying out the crime yourself.”
“Let him think what he will. My father has only a short time to live, and his greatest wish is to spend his last days at Seacrest. That is our home in Kent.”
It seemed to her a sacrilege, using this particular excuse to secure the earl’s assistance. But she was resolved to see Michael Keynes, even if it meant scaling the Tower walls and searching every dungeon and cell until she found him.
“I am sorry for it,” Lord Varden said. “But you have no hope whatever of recovering your home. A murderer forfeits his personal property, which includes any land that is not entailed. Even if Keynes wished to oblige you, he could not sign over the property.”
“But that’s the point, don’t you see? The Duke of Tallant held vouchers for gaming debts owed him by my cousin, who went out to India and disappeared. So Tallant laid claim to my father’s land, as well as the nearby estate he’d inherited from his brother. More than that, he pillaged the houses for anything of value and prevented us from setting foot in our home. But his claim is not valid, and no court has yet made a ruling. If Michael Keynes withdraws the claim on our land and acknowledges my father as the rightful owner, it will be ours again.”
“And you believe he will grant you this favor?”
“Why should he not? He has been kind to my father. Played chess with him, read to him. I’m sure he will agree, if only I can speak with him. And it must be right away, before he is condemned. After that, it will take years for the courts to separate our claim from his forfeited property.” By this time, she barely knew what she was talking about. She only hoped the earl sensed her urgency and could overcome his own dislike of Michael Keynes long enough to arrange access to him.
Grim faced, Lord Varden said nothing until making the turn onto Paradise Row. “Very well, Miss Holcombe. But as you are not related to Keynes, and because of the public clamor surrounding this case, permission must be secured from the chief magistrate.” A sigh, quickly suppressed. “I shall leave you off at the Palazzo, return to Bow Street for a grant of entr
y, and pick you up again as soon as may be. Then we shall go together to the Tower.”
That won’t do at all. “I mean to beg of him a favor, sir, and at a time when he can care nothing for my concerns. If I arrive in your company, he is certain to refuse me. Indeed, he must not learn you have assisted me in any way.”
“But no gentleman would permit you to confront him alone, Miss Holcombe. In addition to his other crimes, which I am continuing to investigate, he is a self-confessed killer.”
“And a prisoner under guard. I wish to go to him alone and speak with him alone.”
They had come to the entrance of Palazzo Neri, where the earl reined in his horses and turned to her with worried eyes.
She pressed her advantage. “Once, not so long ago and on this very spot, you gave me reason to believe you would stand my friend. You said I could call upon you for help at any time. I am doing so now. I ask only for an appointment with Mr. Keynes, and I would be glad of written authorization to present when I arrive at the Tower. Will you help me, Lord Varden, as you promised?”
He exhaled slowly. “You leave me, in honor, no other choice. Wait in your cottage for now. When I have spoken with Sir Richard, I’ll dispatch a servant with his reply.”
Gratitude burned in her throat, but she dared not express it. Even after all that had occurred, the longing in his eyes reached out to enfold her. “Here is a footman to help me from the curricle,” she said briskly. “I shall await your messenger.”
His jaw tightened, as if receiving a blow. But when she looked back at him from the pavement, he gave her a reassuring smile.
Such a good, good man. And yet, if all could be different, if she were capable of falling in love, she would not have chosen him.
It was drawing near three o’clock when a young man wearing the green-and-gold livery of Varden arrived at Mira’s door. He brought with him the letter of authorization she had requested, a parcel, and a note from the earl explaining that the items taken during the search of her cottage were being returned, save for the gown she had worn to Berkeley Square. It was stained with what appeared to be blood, and for the time being, the magistrate had decided to keep it.