A Convenient Fiction

by Mimi Matthews

  A lady came to stand beside him. She was tall and svelte, with magnificent auburn hair. Her blue-green eyes followed his. “Yes. Quite distinctive. And very beautiful.”

  Laura felt a flicker of unease. There were thieves on the continent. Alex had warned her to keep her wits about her. She took a step back. “Thank you. I certainly think so.”

  “Are you English?” The lady had a voice like a crisp apple. Rather like a schoolmistress. A British schoolmistress, at that.

  “I am,” Laura said. “As are you, I presume.”

  “Indeed,” the gentleman replied. “We’ve recently come down from Paris, by way of London.” He paused before introducing himself. “I’m Thomas Finchley. And this is my wife, Jenny. We’re here on our honeymoon.”

  Laura stared at him. “Thomas Finchley? Of Finchley and Fothergill?”

  Mr. Finchley didn’t look at all surprised that she knew who he was. “That’s correct.”

  “But what are you doing here?” She inwardly flinched at her own impertinence. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to be overbold. It’s just… This is rather extraordinary. I had an appointment with you little more than a week ago.”

  His brow furrowed. “I don’t seem to recall—”

  “I was obliged to write and cancel it.” She hesitated, somewhat abashed. “I’m Laura Hayes, of Lower Hawley in Surrey.” She offered her hand. “I enquired about a matter involving my solicitor, Mr. Weatherwax.”

  “Ah, yes. My apologies, Miss Hayes. I was in my office for a limited number of hours in the days leading up to my wedding. It was all quite busy, as you can imagine.”

  “Yes of course,” Laura said. “But it isn’t Miss Hayes any longer. I’m lately married myself. In fact, I’m here on my honeymoon as well.”

  Mr. Finchley smiled. It was a pleasant smile. A kind one. But something in his face reminded Laura of Magpie when he had a bird in his sights. A flickering glimpse of a hardened predator about to pounce on its prey. “I believe, then,” he said, “that I must be addressing Mrs. Alex Archer.”

  Alex was up and dressed by the time Laura returned to their hotel room. He was irritated as well. He’d told her to wait, and she hadn’t listened. Grasse seemed safe enough, to be sure, but Laura had never been out of Lower Hawley. She shouldn’t be wandering about alone. Anything could happen.

  The door shut behind her with a click. She stood with her back to it, one hand still on the doorknob. She was wearing neither her hat, nor gloves.

  His chest tightened with emotion at the sight of her. Good lord, he was becoming sentimental. More than sentimental. Downright mawkish. How else to describe it when the mere sight of his wife disrupted the rhythm of his heart and breath? It was a physiological phenomenon. One he’d been gradually learning to accustom himself to. But just when he’d believed he was making some progress in that regard, she’d gone and told him that she loved him.

  She loved him.

  It took all of his self-control not to react like some affection-starved madman.

  He went toward her. “How long does it take to post a letter? I was just about to come looking for you.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  He took in her pale face and trembling hands in one comprehensive glance. His muscles tensed. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “You’ll never credit it. Mr. Finchley is staying here. At this very hotel.”

  Alex stopped where he stood. Had she pulled out a pistol and shot him between the eyes he couldn’t have been more stunned. “Tom Finchley?”

  She nodded. “He was in the lobby with his wife. He’s lately married. They’ve come to France on honeymoon, just as we have. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

  Alex didn’t believe in coincidences. If Tom was here, he had a reason. “Does he know who you are?”

  Laura gave another tense nod. She lifted her left hand, her thumb twisting her ruby betrothal ring on her finger. “He recognized my ring.”

  His breath stopped in his chest. “Did he.”

  “He asked if he had the pleasure of speaking to Mrs. Alex Archer. I told him that he did. I didn’t think—”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong.” Alex closed the distance between them, but Laura seemed intent on preserving it. She moved away before he could reach her, walking to the hotel window, her arms folded at her waist.

  “Where did this ring come from?” she asked.

  He didn’t follow her. If she needed space from him, she could have it—within reason. So long as she didn’t leave him. “What did he tell you?”

  “About the ring? Nothing. But it must be significant for him to have recognized it the way he did. I fear it has some sinister history you haven’t shared with me.” She twisted it again on her finger. “I suppose I should take it off.”

  “Don’t,” he said sharply. Her eyes flicked to his, startled. He made an effort to soften his voice. “Please.”

  She left the ring where it was. “You said Mr. Finchley was in the orphanage with you. That he was a former friend of yours.”

  “He was.”

  “And that’s all? Just a friend?”

  Alex briefly looked away from her. The truth of his betrayal was an ever-present weight. It seemed to double now, in light of Laura’s question. To bear him down with the guilt and shame of it. “He was more than a friend,” he admitted. “We were as close as brothers. Finchley, me, and two other orphan boys. Justin Thornhill and Neville Cross. They were the only family I ever knew.”

  “Which was the boy you saved? I assume it was one of them.”

  “Cross. He was the boy who fell.”

  “And you’ve never seen any of them since?”

  “Nor do I wish to.”

  “He wants to see you.”

  Of course he did, Alex thought bitterly. Tom had nothing to fear. He hadn’t hurt anyone. Betrayed anyone.

  “He said to tell you that he’ll be at the café on the corner at four o’clock. Alone.”

  Alex glanced at the small porcelain clock on the mantel. It was a quarter to four already.

  “You told me in Surrey that you and Mr. Finchley hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Does my ring have anything to do with it?”

  He opened his mouth to reply, only to shut it again. He couldn’t lie to her. “Yes,” he said finally. “To a degree.”

  “Can you not tell me?”

  “It was a long time ago, Laura.”

  “And as relevant today as it was then, I daresay. Else it wouldn’t cause you to look like that.”

  He ran a hand over the side of his face. He didn’t know how he looked. Probably rather like he’d seen a ghost.

  “Is it stolen?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. And then again, more forcefully, “No. It was… It was part of a treasure trove. A bag of old jewelry and coins Finchley and I found buried in a wall beneath the abbey. It didn’t belong to anyone.”

  She looked at him steadily, her arms still folded.

  He slid his hand to rub the back of his neck. “The two of us went there after Cross had his accident. Thornhill remained behind at his sickbed. It was just Finchley and me. We didn’t expect to find anything. It was so much sport. And then, suddenly, there it was. A decaying bag filled with a few pieces of old jewelry and one hundred pounds in gold coins.”

  Laura’s face went ashen.

  “It was meant to set us all free. Thornhill, Finchley, Cross, and me. To get us away from the orphanage. To make us safe. And I took it. I beat Finchley nearly to a pulp, and I took it all for myself.”

  Alex could remember it like it was yesterday. The feeling of his fist connecting with Tom’s nose. The crunching sound of broken bone and cartilage.

  In the early days after he’d left North Devon, he’d often wondered what had got into him. What evil demon in his soul had prompted him to
do that to his friend. But he could recall no legitimate reason. Tom had merely been there, trying to stop him. And Alex had been consumed with anger, too long suppressed. In that moment, it had erupted like a volcano.

  He’d never forget the look on Tom’s face when they’d parted. It was forever burned into his brain. That stark look of betrayal—and rage.

  He will hate me for this for the rest of his life, Alex recalled thinking.

  And he deserved to be hated. Deserved to have his happiness taken from him.

  He forced himself to meet Laura’s eyes, expecting to find an expression of disgust in them. Of disappointment. It wasn’t there. Instead, she regarded him with something like compassion.

  Pray God it wasn’t pity.

  “Why did you do it?” she asked.

  He grimaced. Good lord, if she only knew. But there was no way on earth he was going to tell her about Gilbert Morley. That part of his history was too poisonous. Too depraved. He was resolved to protect her from it, whatever the cost. “I was all of twelve years old,” he said. “Desperate to get away. I didn’t want to wait on Thornhill’s strength, or Finchley’s strategy. I didn’t want to be there when Neville Cross died. All I wanted was to run. And so I did.”

  She looked as though she wanted to say something—to ask him something more—but her eyes flicked to the clock. “It’s nearly four o’clock. If you intend to meet him, you should go now.”

  “Laura—”

  “You’ll have to hurry.”

  Alex pushed his fingers through his hair. “I needn’t meet him. You and I can leave Grasse. We can—”

  “I think you should speak with him,” Laura said. “No more running.”

  Emotion tightened his throat. “Yes,” he agreed at last. “As you say.” His voice was a hoarse rasp. “No more running.”

  He swept up his hat as he walked to the door, casting one last look at Laura before he left the room. Her mouth tilted up in a faint smile of encouragement.

  The sight of it hardened his resolve.

  Minutes later, he entered the small café at the end of the street. It was filled with tourists and locals enjoying afternoon cups of tea and coffee. The air was redolent with the fragrance of freshly baked pastries and bread.

  He scanned the crowd, grateful for his height. It allowed him to see over the heads of the patrons at the small tables near the front of the café, and to the back corner, where a gentleman sat alone at a table.

  A gentleman wearing silver spectacles.

  Alex’s gut clenched. He stared at the man for a moment. A man who was, undoubtedly, Tom Finchley.

  Tom saw him, too. He gave him an arrested glance. And then he stood, waiting.

  Alex crossed the room to meet him. When he reached the table, he stopped, not two feet from his former friend. And they looked at each other. They simply looked—studying each other’s faces in taut silence.

  Tom was the first to break it. “How much you resemble Justin.”

  A spasm of emotion nearly stole Alex’s voice. “You’ve seen him?”

  “Quite recently. We’ve remained close over the years.”

  “And Neville?” Alex asked. “Did he…?”

  “He’s alive,” Tom said. “Thriving.”

  A swell of relief crashed over Alex, as powerful as a tidal wave. He sank into one of the chairs. “There were no ill effects from the fall?”

  Tom resumed his seat. “He sometimes finds it difficult to form words, but there’s nothing wrong with his intellect, or with his body.”

  “Does he still reside in Devon?”

  “He does. He and Justin, both. I saw them not two weeks ago at my wedding breakfast.” Tom’s mouth curved slightly. “I’m lately married.”

  “As am I.”

  “Your wife is lovely.”

  “She is,” Alex said.

  “I understand she employs Harold Weatherwax as her solicitor.”

  “Not any longer. The man lost most of her money in some infernal canal scheme.” Alex paused. “He claims you put a spy in his office.”

  Tom shrugged. “Needs must.”

  A waiter approached them, enquiring if they wanted to order. Tom lifted his brows at Alex in question. Alex shook his head. He thought he saw a flicker of disappointment in Tom’s face. Perhaps he’d expected that Alex would wish to stay longer? That he’d have a desire to reminisce? But Alex felt no such urge.

  “Revenez plus tard, s’il vous plaît,” Tom said.

  “Oui, monsieur.” The waiter departed.

  “My wife doesn’t know the whole of this,” Alex said.

  “About the circumstances in which you left Abbot’s Holcombe?”

  “About the orphanage. The things that happened in North Devon. I’ve tried to forget.”

  “And yet…she wears the ring we found at Greyfriar’s Abbey.” Tom’s features set in a puzzled frown. “Odd, that.”

  Alex stiffened. “Why are you here? How did you find me?”

  “You assume it wasn’t a coincidence.”

  “That you just happen to appear in Grasse? Not bloody likely. You’re here for a reason, and it isn’t because you’re on your wedding trip.”

  Tom didn’t deny it. “Last month I received word you were in France. Some reports said Paris, others Marseilles. My wife and I enjoy traveling. It seemed natural to come here on our honeymoon—and to search for you at the same time. I believe we’ve been no more than two days behind you since you left Paris.”

  “When did you arrive in Grasse?”

  “Not a half hour before we encountered your wife. Imagine my surprise, as I signed into the hotel, to find the Greyfriar’s Abbey ruby on the finger of the lady standing next to me.”

  “It belongs to my wife now. If you want your share of the treasure—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t need any money from you. And I don’t want any portion of that blasted treasure.”

  “Then why are you here?” Alex asked. “It’s been decades. Why have you come looking for me after all this time?”

  “Because Justin and Neville asked me to.”

  “What?”

  “Do you know, I never even told them about the treasure. All this time, they believed you’d simply vanished. That you were very likely dead. And then, earlier this year, my wife convinced me to make a clean breast of things. To tell Justin and Neville about what you’d done.” Tom’s expression grew somber. “That’s when I learned that you visited Neville’s sickbed the night you disappeared. That you told him someone was hurting you.”

  Alex recoiled from Tom’s words.

  “Neville says it was one of Crenshaw’s friends. Someone at the apothecary shop.”

  “Good God, Tom,” Alex said hoarsely. “Do you think I want to relive this?”

  “What happened?” Tom asked. “Who was it?”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Tell me his name.”

  “Is that why you came here? To hear every sordid detail of why I left North Devon?” Alex muttered an oath. “I was a boy of twelve. It was decades ago.”

  “They’re all dead, you know,” Tom casually informed him. “Sir Oswald. Cheevers. The men who beat us, starved us—fathered one of us.”

  A derisive smile edged Alex’s mouth. “Only one of us?”

  Tom contemplated him from across the table. “I don’t know if Sir Oswald was your father. I only ever found proof that he was Justin’s. But looking at you now… My God, but you resemble the man.”

  It was the worst sort of praise.

  To think that he looked like Sir Oswald Bannister. A gentleman renowned for being a wastrel. A lecher.

  “How did he die?” Alex asked.

  “He fell from the cliffs not long after Justin bought the Abbey. He’d been drinking.”

&
nbsp; “And Cheevers?” Leonard Cheevers had run the orphanage. Had beat them, and withheld their food for the smallest infractions.

  A look of satisfaction came over Tom’s face. “Tried and executed for theft. They hanged him in the public square.”

  Alex briefly rested his head in his hands. “Perhaps there is justice in the world.”

  “I believe that,” Tom said. “Eventually, it comes to us all.”

  “That doesn’t bode well for me.”

  “Have you committed so many crimes since you left North Devon?”

  “Not crimes, no. Nothing like betraying my friends and leaving them to die.”

  Tom’s light blue eyes softened behind his spectacles. “None of us died, Alex. None of us suffered any more than we already had. If that’s been on your conscience these twenty or more years—”

  “It has.” Alex gave a huff of humorless laughter. It had ruined his life.

  “You can’t be doing so badly. You’re newly married, traveling in high style through France. Besides, even if justice did come for you, you’d have something to weigh against your sins.”

  “I don’t know what.”

  “You saved Neville’s life.”

  Alex clenched his fist where it lay. The memories were too painful. Too raw, despite the intervening years.

  “The way you went in after him,” Tom said. “The sea was so rough that day, and you were under the water for so long. Justin and I despaired of you. But every time you came up, you went back down again—for longer and longer. Minutes at a time. It was miraculous. The most heroic thing I’ve ever seen. To this day, I still don’t know how you did it.”

  “Do you want to know how I did it?” The words burst from Alex in a rush of whispered fury. “How I was able to swim so deep—to hold my breath for so long? It’s because I didn’t care whether I lived or died anymore. I was ready to drown down there. To let the sea take me. Anything to get away.”

  Tom went white about the mouth. “Who was it? I want a name.”

  “A friend of Crenshaw’s from Bournemouth. A man called Morley. He used to come to the shop to buy opium. Crenshaw supplied him with that, and more. Morley sold the drugs on the street for a profit. Crenshaw would have done anything to oblige him, even given him access to his apprentice.”