I swallowed against a dry throat, my heart racing. “I want them to know. I want to clear my mother’s name. But I didn’t kill my father—or Mr. Oliver—or Birdy. You must believe me!”
She leaned closer, snarling. “No more lies! I’ve known for weeks—since the night he was found! Someone came to me. They saw you entering the stable with Birdy back in December when she disappeared. They couldn’t believe you would do something so horrible, so they came to me for advice. And for Rowan’s sake, I convinced them to keep quiet—so he wouldn’t get caught up in the scandal. I protected you! But no more! Before this night is over, you will be behind bars!”
Dread ran through me. I would never convince her.
But I still held one weapon.
“If your lying witness says a word, I will tell everyone about Nigel—that he murdered Daniel Barron and cheated at Drake. That you paid Mr. Foley and promoted him to headmaster. I will tell Judge Stoker, and he will believe me—you know he will! And then everyone will know the truth about the Blackshaws!” My heart raced.
Her eyes flickered with fear, but her voice remained icy and sure. “You think anyone will believe you—the girl who became a killer like her mother? Who killed her own father and now lies to protect herself?”
“No,” I admitted, my heart thundering in my chest. “But they will believe Rowan. I will tell him that his father murdered Daniel Barron, and he will tell the world. And they will believe him! He has no reason to smear his own family’s name.”
Mrs. Blackshaw drew a sharp breath, and I felt a spark of hope.
My own voice hardened. “Rowan doesn’t know the truth about his father, but if your lying witness speaks out, I will tell him everything. That his father was a cheat and a murderer. That every time you listed his father’s virtues—every time you made Rowan feel small in comparison—you knew the truth—that his father killed his friend and burned the body. Rowan will be disgusted—and furious—and tell the world everything! And they will believe him!”
Her voice fell to a furious hiss. “Rowan would never do that. He is a Blackshaw.”
I lifted my chin, feigning an arrogance I didn’t feel. “Rowan will do anything I ask of him. How did you put it? I have … bewitched him.”
She came so quickly, my breath caught in my throat. She grabbed my arm and pushed her face close to mine, her teeth bared. “You foul … wicked … horrid girl! No better than your mother! No better than your grandfather—evil man with evil children, spawned by that tramp of a woman! You will hang for what you’ve done! And when you see your grandfather in hell, you can give him a message from me—”
Her voice choked to a stop. Tears glittered in her eyes.
“You can tell that wretched man that I was behind everything—every business deal that collapsed—every money rumor that was false—every finance scheme that failed! I ruined him! And when he died, I spat on his grave! And when you die, I will spit on yours—the last of the Barrons! You wicked, murderous girl!” Her black skirt swished and she strode away, back to the dining hall.
I inhaled a shaky breath, my heart pounding. For a moment, Mrs. Blackshaw had seemed possessed of madness. My knees shook, and I collapsed onto a chair. I pressed my hands to my mouth, horrified by all that had happened.
Would I be arrested tonight? Hanged in three days like my mother?
No. I still had some power. Mrs. Blackshaw didn’t want Rowan to know that his father was a murderer. She thought he was going to Boston for a wedding ring, still trapped in her web.
But Rowan had broken free. I felt a surge of hope.
Run, Rowan. Run far away.
34
I tossed for most of the night, my thoughts churning, then woke to warm sunlight streaming through the window, the morning half gone, my nightgown damp with sweat. I sat up, groggy and blinking.
When I swallowed, my throat burned.
Across the room, the beautiful blue dress lay puddled on the floor, its hem soiled from my walk home through the dark woods. I would have to launder it today. I groaned at the prospect.
I felt wretched. I rubbed my stiff neck and found a stray hairpin and a couple of tiny white flowers. I pulled them out and added them to the pile on the nightstand.
Last night seemed like a dream. I’d told Sam the truth; given a speech; faced Mrs. Blackshaw and learned—finally—why my mother pointed a gun at Nigel Blackshaw.
And I’d sent Rowan away.
I gasped, realizing the late hour. I pulled my knitted shawl over my nightgown and hurried down the staircase in my bare feet, worried I’d missed him.
My heart dropped when I saw a large envelope on the table. I picked it up and saw a note scrawled on the outside in Rowan’s hand. I didn’t want to wake you. Write to me every day for these two weeks, so I know all is well. My heart is full, but I will spare you my feeble attempts at romantic prose. Perhaps this will suffice. He’d drawn a simple sketch of a young man on one knee, holding up flowers, more comical than romantic. I gave a weak laugh.
Inside the envelope was a significant amount of money—more than he should have left me when he needed it for his own travels. He’d included a slip of paper with his uncle’s address. And another brief note: The box contains a pistol that belonged to my father, and his father before him. I know you won’t touch it, but you seek a killer, Valentine, and it comforts me to know that you have this should you need it.
For the first time, I noticed a large wooden box on the table—a pistol case, wider than it was tall, finely crafted, with a ribbon of gold inlay around the edge. It looked old, with a rich patina. I hesitated, then turned the small key in front and lifted the lid.
And saw a large, black pistol with a golden bird on its side.
My ears throbbed, for I knew its frightful roar. I stared at it, both horrified and fascinated to learn that I’d killed Nigel Blackshaw with his own gun. How had it ended up in my mother’s hands?
I closed the lid and stepped back, unable to take my eyes off the wooden box.
Rowan didn’t know this was the gun that killed his father, or he wouldn’t have brought it.
And he didn’t know that his father murdered Daniel Barron.
I would leave him in ignorance, if I could; I knew the weight of a murdering parent. But we’d promised to tell each other if we ever learned why his father died, and this time, I would keep my word. I would have to tell him in a letter. But I could also write that he’d been right about his grandmother: she didn’t kill anyone.
But someone had.
I rubbed my temples, realizing I was right back where I’d started, with no idea who’d murdered Father and Mr. Oliver and Birdy—or why they’d done it.
The lying witness.
I straightened with a startled breath. I’d thought Mrs. Blackshaw had just made up the story to convince Rowan that I was the killer. But last night, it became clear that someone did go to her with a story about me entering the stable with Birdy. And this lying witness was the killer.
Mrs. Blackshaw knew their identity.
I hurried up the staircase, my pulse racing. I dressed quickly, my hands shaking on the buttons. My body felt strangely warm and clammy, my throat sore. I was sick, I suspected, but it didn’t matter. The answers were so close. I just had to convince Mrs. Blackshaw to tell me the name of this witness.
Why would she? She believed them, not me. She thought I was the killer.
I would go to Sheriff Crane instead, I quickly decided—tell him I shot Nigel Blackshaw, then tell him about this lying witness. He would convince Mrs. Blackshaw to reveal their name.
Or believe her and arrest me.
I descended the staircase, trying to not doubt, trying to ignore the trepidation tightening my stomach. This was the reason I hadn’t left with Rowan—to admit what I’d done and clear my mother’s name. And Mrs. Blackshaw knew the name of the killer.
I paused in the kitchen, my head dizzy, my stomach hollow. But I looked at the stale bread on the counter and k
new I couldn’t eat a bite.
Outside, a cool breeze hit the sweat on my forehead, sending a shiver through me. I walked around the house to the road.
Mrs. Henny straightened in her garden, holding a clump of weeds, smiling when she saw me. “I was hoping to see you today, Valentine. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your speech. I don’t know how you memorize so many words.”
“I’m glad it’s over,” I admitted, walking closer.
Her expression softened. “I couldn’t help but think how proud your mother would have been. You looked just like her up there. That’s what I kept thinking.”
I swallowed against my sore throat. Mrs. Henny was one of the few people who ever spoke kindly about my mother. They’d been friends, living across the road.
Her brow creased. “Are you feeling all right, Valentine? You look a bit pale.”
“I think I’m sick,” I admitted.
“Well, you must take willow bark. Come inside; I have some in the kitchen.” She turned toward the house.
I hesitated, glancing down the road, then reluctantly followed her through the door.
“Philly is napping,” Mrs. Henny said in a hushed voice, glancing up the narrow staircase. “Such an exciting night, but very late.”
I followed her to the small kitchen at the back of the cottage and saw the source of the gently spiced aroma filling the air—a dozen small currant cakes arranged on a tray. Mrs. Henny was known for them.
“Just let me find it,” she murmured, searching through the cupboard. Her fingers pushed bottles aside. She opened a tea tin and sniffed, then returned it to the shelf. My eyes roamed across the shelves, up to the top—
And I saw it.
A distinctive blue tea tin with scrolled lettering, half-hidden in the top corner.
I blinked, but it didn’t change. It was the same box. The tea that poisoned Mr. Oliver and disappeared when I ran for help.
My heart leaped—then tumbled in horror. My mind spun, trying to understand the impossible. Trying to believe the unbelievable.
The jagged pieces slid into place.
Mrs. Henny lived across the road. She saw what happened the night Nigel Blackshaw died. She saw me pick up the gun. She knew my mother was innocent.
Why didn’t she defend my mother in court? I didn’t know. I couldn’t think.
Whatever the reason, she’d kept the secret for eleven years—until, in a moment of weakness, she’d confided in the Reverend Mr. Oliver—her friend, the man who wanted to marry her. And he told me. And I told Father—who immediately knew that the only other person who knew my mother was innocent was Mrs. Henny. He’d crossed the road and scolded her. Tell the rector you made it up, before he tells someone else. Before the entire town finds out what Valentine did—before Valentine believes it!
But Mrs. Henny took it one step further. She knew which plants were deadly. She went to the rectory and silenced Mr. Oliver.
Confusion swirled. Why would she care enough about my reputation to murder Mr. Oliver? It didn’t make sense. I remembered his wide, terrified eyes, and fury rose up my spine.
“I don’t see the willow bark,” Mrs. Henny murmured, her back to me. “I must have given it to Mrs. Duncan. But you can use this.” She turned, holding a jar of amber honey. “A spoonful, twice a day.”
“You killed him,” I said hoarsely.
Her eyes snapped up to my face, then quickly followed my gaze to the top shelf and the blue tea tin—and the jar of honey slid from her hand, shattering.
Hot anger pulsed through me. “You murdered Mr. Oliver!”
She stared at me, horrified.
“You served him poisoned tea—Birdy saw through the window—she called you his friend! Then you took the tea tin—you saw him lying there!” I remembered Mr. Oliver’s slumped figure, and my temper flared. “He knew you’d poisoned him as he lay dying—the woman he wanted to marry!”
Mrs. Henny stepped back, trembling. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I … I had no choice. He shouldn’t have told you. I spoke to him in confidence because I thought I was dying. But he was talking, and I knew he would ruin everything.”
I shook my head, unable to imagine. “What … what could Mr. Oliver possibly ruin that would make you want to kill him?” My mind raced to make sense of it, as Mrs. Henny’s eyes fluttered to the ceiling.
And I knew the answer. The only thing that could drive timid Mrs. Henny to murder. “Philly,” I breathed. “What does Philly have to do with this?”
Mrs. Henny lifted her chin, and her voice steadied. “He was going to ruin her future.”
Philly’s future. I shook my head, not understanding.
And then I saw it all. I released a weak laugh. “Her future with Rowan.”
“She … she is going to marry him. She is going to be an important lady.”
My mind flew. “You heard them arguing that night. You heard Mrs. Blackshaw tell my mother that Nigel murdered Daniel. So you struck a deal with Mrs. Blackshaw. You agreed to keep quiet in return for—what? A wedding ring?”
“Philly is going to be a Blackshaw. A prominent lady—not scraping for every penny!”
This was the reason Mrs. Blackshaw insisted that Rowan marry Philly—she’d made another despicable bargain with Mrs. Henny. If Rowan didn’t marry Philly, Mrs. Henny would tell the world that Nigel Blackshaw was a murderer.
Another horrible truth rose.
“You killed my father and Birdy!”
Mrs. Henny’s eyes widened. “It was a mistake; I know that now. But Joseph frightened me—he was so angry. But he shouldn’t have been. I never told Mr. Oliver it was you, Valentine, only that Isabella was innocent. But your father didn’t want you to find out what you’d done. He was so proud that you went to Drake. He was afraid you’d be expelled if Mrs. Blackshaw found out.”
Grief tightened my throat. I hadn’t appreciated Father enough when I’d had the chance. “Why did you kill him?”
She shook her head, her eyes flooding with regret. “I shouldn’t have. I know that now, but I panicked. He called me a stupid, lonely old widow who couldn’t keep her mouth shut. He threatened to tell Mrs. Blackshaw that I was talking about Nigel. She would know I’d broken my promise. The money would stop.”
“Money? What money?” Understanding fell. “She’s been paying you for your silence.”
“Your father was going to tell Mrs. Blackshaw that I hadn’t been loyal to her. That’s what she cares about most—loyalty. That’s what she tells me every time she gives me money. I couldn’t let her know I talked to Mr. Oliver. So, I told your father … I told him to go to the stable where Philly wouldn’t hear us. He was coughing … and I brought him cough syrup.”
“Laced with poison,” I whispered. Father had taken a grateful swig.
It all made sense. She’d killed Father and Mr. Oliver because she didn’t want Mrs. Blackshaw to know that she’d broken her vow of silence. Because she wanted money. Because she wanted Philly to marry a Blackshaw.
She continued in a strained voice. “I saw Birdy at your house. I knew she hadn’t given me away yet, or I would have been arrested. But it was only a matter of time. You were at school, so I went inside and called up the stairs. I said you’d sent me to fetch her because your father had collapsed in the stable. It took some persuasion, but she finally came with me. I had a shovel ready. I told her to bend down to help him, and then I—” She stopped, swallowing.
Hit poor Birdy in the head.
Fury crawled up my throat, but more questions swirled, and Mrs. Henny held all the answers, so I forced my voice to a calm low. “You were friends with my mother. Did she really set out to deceive Nigel Blackshaw in revenge?”
Mrs. Henny’s brow furrowed. “Revenge? I don’t know what you mean.”
“She really did intend to run away with him?”
“Yes, but you mustn’t believe the nasty rumors you’ve heard. Your mother wasn’t unfaithful. But she was unhappy, so desperately unhappy. It started whe
n her brother died. She was never the same after that. She went to the city for a while and came back married, with you. But things were never good between her and Joseph. I used to hear him yelling across the road. He never forgave her—” She stopped herself.
“I know he wasn’t my real father.” I stifled my temper, hoping to draw more information from her. “Do you know anything about my real father?”
“She only mentioned him once, and no details to speak of. But I could see that she loved him.”
“Why didn’t she marry him?”
Mrs. Henny shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”
My head reeled with questions. I remembered Nigel Blackshaw’s letter begging my mother to marry him, which she’d refused. “Why did she agree to run away with Nigel Blackshaw? She didn’t love him.”
“For you, Valentine. Things had become so bitter between her and Joseph, she thought it would be a better life. The four of you were supposed to leave that night. And I think Joseph was relieved. He just wanted it over. But Mrs. Blackshaw found out and wanted to stop them. She came to the house to convince Isabella. I was in my garden and heard everything.”
I said, “She told my mother that Nigel killed Daniel.”
“Not at first. She threatened to disinherit Nigel, but Isabella only laughed. She didn’t care about the money. She accused Mrs. Blackshaw of hating the Barrons because she’d been jilted at the altar—and that’s when Mrs. Blackshaw became enraged. She screamed that Silas Barron meant nothing to her, that Isabella was too stupid to see the truth—that Nigel murdered Daniel and started the fire. It was horrible. Isabella clawed at Mrs. Blackshaw. Joseph had to pull them apart. Then Mrs. Blackshaw panicked, knowing she’d said too much. She screamed that she’d made it up, but Isabella knew better. She collapsed, sobbing, and Joseph ordered Mrs. Blackshaw to leave.”
Poor Mama. She’d seen her brother’s black, stiffened body. She’d fled Feavers Crossing to escape the grief, only to receive letters from his killer begging her to marry him. And years later, Nigel Blackshaw still pursued her, until she’d agreed to run away with him to escape her bitter husband.
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