The Prince in the Tower

by Lydia M Sheridan

  “That’s why I came to you. You’ve been keeping something from me and I need to know. You know who did it. You know who the counterfeiters are. Maybe they’re murderers, too. Maybe Mr. Weilmunster found out something he shouldn’t have, so they killed him. Maybe--”

  Edmund shushed her with a hand over her mouth. “I don’t know who killed Weilmunster.”

  Kate wrenched her head away. “But you know something--I’d lay my life on it. Who? Who is it?”

  Edmund studied her carefully, but slowly shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”

  “You mean you won’t!”

  He nodded.

  “Listen to me!” Kate grabbed handfuls of his purple satin jacket. “I’ll do anything you say. I’ll give myself up. I’ll confess. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just get my brother out!”

  Edmund gathered her into his arms, the whole long length of her, tense with anger, rigid with fear. “We’ll get him out. I promise.”

  For the longest moment, Kate stood within the circle of his arms, rigid, then relaxed into his solid warmth. If felt good and right to share her burdens with this dandy, this marquis, this ex-officer turned petty blackmailer-spy.

  She allowed herself a moment of peace as he stroked her hair and murmured comforting nothing in her ears, then pulled away.

  "Tell me what happened,” Edmund ordered. Kate did, from the moment she first found the body. Then he gave her the tongue lashing she deserved.

  “You little idiot!” he hissed. “The whole village is bleeding red with dragoons searching for the Cavalier, and you calmly prance out to rob a coach?”

  His reasoning had a powerful impact on Kate, precisely because it was deserved.

  “I knew they were here for me, but I didn't think I'd get caught!” Kate shouted, dripping with the perspiration of fear, the cold mist, and the stink of Adam's water-logged flesh still in her nostrils. She was glad to have Edmund to yell at so she wouldn’t be sick all over them both

  "Be quiet!" They glared at each other, breathing heavily.

  “It never occurred to me that an intelligent woman would be stupid enough --” Edmund gritted his teeth audibly. “Dragoons--highwaymen--what possessed you to traipse about like that tonight of all nights?” Although, to be fair, there was no way she could have known about Weilmunster. “Did you think Major Goodwillie wouldn’t put the two together, as I did, that maybe, just perhaps, the two are related?”

  "This is pointless," she ground out.

  Edmund, loathe as he was to admit it, agreed.

  “Who is it?” she asked again.

  He shook his head. “I’m not telling you,” he reiterated. “You’ll go off half-cocked and get your brother into more trouble or get the three of us killed, very likely.”

  It was no more than the truth, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted saying them. The look of guilt written so plainly on her face was like a physical blow.

  “I’ll do exactly what you say. No questions. I just want Bertie safe.”

  “The best thing you can do for your brother is to go home and let me handle this.”

  She shook her head. "That's the only thing I won't do."

  They stood, staring at each other. Finally, Edmund sighed. Against his better judgment, he told her. It was her brother in cooling his heels in gaol, not his. She had the right.

  “It’s Father Flannery.”

  Her reaction was not what he’d expected. Curling her lip in disgust, she stomped off in the direction of the green. “Fine, don’t tell me.”

  He caught her arm, swinging her about to face him. “I’m telling you. It’s Flannery.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” She studied his face, but it was clear he wasn’t joking. “You’re lying.” He shook his head. “Then you’re just wrong.”

  “I don’t think so. The first night in the cavern I found a bead--”

  “That could have come from anywhere.”

  “At the Rectory, I matched it with some on one of his hassocks.”

  “That only proves he was down in the cavern.”

  "Exactly. I know in my bones it's Flannery, but this isn't enough evidence to bring charges.”

  Kate shook her head in denial. “He’s a priest. He’d never do anything like that.”

  “He’s a man. He’s poor and chaste outwardly, but there are many things he’s hiding.”

  Kate refused to listen to any more of this drivel. Without another word, she turned to leave. Edmund stepped in front of her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Where do you think? To find the real killer.” Kate stalked off.

  Edmund took a step to go after her, but the idea of arguing with Kate or trying to carry her off by physical force would only lead to complications neither one desired--or Bertie, for that matter.

  The thing to do was confront Flannery now, tonight. Beat the truth out of him if necessary before Kate had time to get herself into any more trouble.

  Edmund checked his pistol as he walked across the post road to the Rectory, the only house in the village without a light on or people milling about, watching the goings-on. Kate was striding across the green, her skirts billowing in the breeze, hair whipping about her head, a magnificent Fury on a mission of vengeance.

  He tried the doorknob. It turned easily and silently. Just before he threw it open to charge in, he looked back at Kate. She was at the roundhouse, slightly bent to talk to her brother. As he watched, she straightened up, wiped her face with the back of her hand, and strode off into the night. Edmund's heart clenched, but he had to focus on the mission at hand.

  Gently he pushed the door open as slowly as he could and stuck his head around to check out the hallway. It was dark save for a few small candles sputtering languidly in the corner. All was oddly still. He stepped inside, pistol at the ready, and almost yelled when he saw Father Flannery standing silent in the dim glow, eyes open wide in shock. He looked almost as startled as Edmund felt.

  “Good evening, my son--”

  But the words of welcome were strangled along with the good father’s neck as Edmund grabbed the priest by the collar, swinging him about till his head crashed against the wall.

  “It’s time we had a little chat, Father.”

  ***

  Kate stood at the roundhouse, looking in the barred window at her little brother. In the cold damp cell he looked younger than his age. Not almost a young man, he was the young boy she’d raised almost as her own child. Now, all her fault, he was small and scared and frightened, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. She held onto the bars as the hot tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. If Bertie saw her cry, she who never cried, he’d know the matter was as serious as it was.

  Bertie covered her hands with his to comfort her. They were cold. Instantly, she fumbled in the pocket of her cloak, pulling out her gloves.

  "Take these.”

  Bertie shook his head. “No, Katie. I’m fine. You need your gloves.”

  “I’ve got a spare pair,” she fibbed.

  "No you don't." He gave her a jaunty grin, his eyes blazing with an excitement tinged by fear.. Kate put her gloves back in her pocket without further argument.

  "You looked like Papa just now."

  "He always joked that one of us would end up on the gallows someday."

  A wrenching sob tore out of Kate's chest.

  "Don't, Katie. It's going to be fine."

  Bertie nodded. They both stood silently for a moment.

  “I don’t want to die.”

  "You're not going to die, I promise you." Kate gripped the bars tighter as if the force alone could save him.

  “You can't make that promise--"

  "That's enough!" Her voice echoed across the green. She took a deep breath. "I need to ask you some questions." Her brother nodded.

  "Did you see anything or anyone when you were out tonight? Anything at all out of the ordinary?”

  He paused to think, t
hen shook his head. “No. It was just dark and we were playing in the river. Then Ethan and I decided to play on the platform, but his mother saw him and made him come in. It wasn’t much fun all by myself, so I went home.”

  Kate frowned, her mind spinning in a dozen different directions. “And you didn’t see anyone?”

  He shrugged. “No. Just the usual.”

  Kate jumped on the morsel. “The usual? Any strangers? Any of the tourists?”

  Bertie frowned in concentration. He didn’t need to be reminded of the gravity of his memories of the previous evening. Finally he sighed in frustration.

  “No. Just the usual,” he repeated. “Lady Jeanne left from the Kendall’s. Mrs. Gordon left the Rectory really late. Miss Radish went to the church, I don't know why, because it was dark. There were some people taking the tour. That’s it Katie, that’s all there were.”

  Kate bit her lip as if it would help her to think. Her mind ran over each person in turn, weighing, judging, discarding each in turn. “Lady Jeanne--Mrs. Gordon--Miss Radish--”

  Nodding, Bertie added, “Yes, she was talking to Father Flannigan. I saw them in the graveyard.”

  Something clicked in Kate's brain. “Miss Radish was talking to Father Flannery? At St. Agatha’s?”

  He nodded again.

  “Miss Radish is not a Catholic. Why would she be at church at that hour?”

  “I’m sorry, Katie. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t stayed out so late.” He hung his head and the guilt welled up in Kate like a balloon in Hyde Park. “None of that,” she returned briskly. “We’ll get you out. Don’t worry.”

  Bertie nodded though his chin wobbled. He was still young enough to believe, or hope, that it really was okay, and that his elder sister would solve the problem.

  Kate gripped the bars, shooting a look about the green. In a whisper, she instructed, “Bertie, listen to me. If something goes wrong--”

  He looked up in alarm.

  “Nothing will go wrong. But if something does and I or Auntie Alice or the girls or Mr. Dalrymple come to you, do what they say immediately and without question.” Wild, crazy thoughts of midnight escapes to France or America whirled in her brain, impossible plans which might need to be possible to save her brother’s life. Murder was too serious a charge to get off lightly, even if one was an earl. The most he could hope for was transportation to Australia. Kate wondered if it were possible to bribe the judge and how much he might want. After all, she thought wildly, it had worked--or not--for Captain Harry. Or against him, really, since he’d been hanged. How ironic if her brother could be pardoned by judges bribed with stolen gold, or false coin. She took a deep breath to still her whirling thoughts.

  “Do you understand?”

  "Yes."

  Kate turned, scrubbing the tears from her face with the back of her hand.

  "I'm going now."

  "Where?”

  She gave him the same grin the Cavalier used with such success in his various robberies.

  “I’m going to find the killer."

  "You know who it is?"

  "Yes, I do," she said grimly, and strode off into the night.

  ***

  Major Goodwillie had had a difficult day made more difficult and utterly frustrating by the blatant lawless antics of Oaksley. The major called a spade a spade and a thief a thief, and if there was one thing which would make his tenure at Oaksley somewhat bearable, it would be the capture of the Gray Cavalier. In this respect, the major and Mr. Weilmunster had a great deal in common indeed, and would have had a great deal more if Adam Weilmunster had not been firstly a dead bore, and secondly, dead.

  But if truth be told, Kate was having a slightly worse time than even Major Goodwillie, but definitely better than the good Father Flannigan, even now watching as his comfortable home was being tossed by Edmund in a desperate search for proof. It turned out that Father Flannery was unaccountably knowledgeable about English law, especially where it concerned proof.

  She’d gone to Miss Radish’s cottage, directly behind the Brigands and Buns Coffee Shoppe, but Miss Radish, thanks to the comings and goings on the green, had been alert to danger. When Kate interrupted her packing, she asked no questions, proclaimed no innocence. She simply greeted Kate warmly, which threw her off balance, considering her errand. How does one ask an upright member of the community if she is a thief, murderer, counterfeiter, and guilty of treason to boot, when she was busy putting the kettle on for tea?

  It was a social dilemma of such magnitude that Kate wished that Lucy or Lady Alice was with her. It was all so terribly tatty and awkward.

  But it was not so for Miss Radish. She picked up the kitchen poker and whacked her uninvited guest over the head. It was a story of poor manners which far eclipsed Kate’s and would linger long in the minds of mothers of the village, serving for many years as the ultimate Do Not Do This rule in lectures of etiquette to hopeful offspring.

  But Kate, decided Miss Radish, observing her visitor out cold on the cobblestone floor, blood trickling from her hair, must bear some of the blame. Was it really Too Much To Ask that a person have a modicum of privacy in her own home? She hadn’t had a moment’s peace since the stupid Cavalier started his shenanigans that spring. It was difficult enough to sustain a viable career in counterfeiting, what with dragoons, blackmailers, and do-gooders poking their noses where they didn’t belong without Lady Katherine’s butting in, too.

  Miss Radish looked about her cottage with satisfaction. Everything packed in two trunks, the cottage neat as a pin. In less than an hour she was supposed to be on her way to a new and better life, but no.

  She sighed. Was anyone ever so put upon but her? Now she had to take care of her unwanted guest. Luckily the gig was hitched, so she loaded her trunks and tied Lady Katherine’s hands together. With a great deal of grunting, for the lady was no light weight, Miss Radish managed to half carry, half drag her captive out and heave her up on the trunks in the gig. She paused, wondering if she should put Lady Katherine under the trunks, but she had not time and her valuables were quite safely packed, thank you, so she straightened her hat, chirruped to the horse, and set off on her journey. She’d just make a quick side-trip to the Castle to pick up her share of the ill-gotten gains, kill Lady Katherine, and be on her merry way.

  Life was good indeed.

  ***

  Kate’s head throbbed. She shivered from the cold. Slowly she managed to peel her eyes open. It was black, dank, moist, and familiar. She should know where she was. She’d been here before, but she couldn’t think. Her head was fuzzy, but an instinct of self-preservation told her she was in mortal danger. It was a position she’d found herself in a great deal too often of late.

  The sea, she thought drowsily. Pounding behind her, matching the throbbing in her head. She must have gone walking along the sea in the dark and hit her head. She must get back. Aunt Alice and the children would be worried sick. And Edmund, though he was more likely to yell than comfort. She’d probably messed up some precious scheme of his to catch the counterfeiters. Wait a minute. She was his scheme to catch the counterfeiters. Bertie! She sat up as her memory returned, only to sink back with a moan of pain.

  A lifetime, or was it merely days ago, she’d pranced gung-ho into the caverns for the money. Now that it was for her brother, she was a great deal more determined and a great deal less confident. More than anything else, she wished Edmund was here right now, big and strong, yelling at her to stay back, he’d take care of everything. Now she was in a fine pickle, lying helpless after all her bragging and big talk.

  Gradually Kate’s dizziness decreased and with it the despised helplessness. She strained to hear anyone, but nothing came to her ears but the wooshing sound of running water. Her stomach froze with fear as she finally identified her surroundings. She opened her eyes to the damp, the darkness so pervasive she could feel in closing in on her body like a heavy woolen blanket. She was once more in the caverns underground Wallingford Ca
stle and the river was utterly too close for her sense of preservation.

  There came the sound of footsteps and an odd sort of sliding sound, followed by the grunt of a middle-aged spinster hauling--if Kate was seeing clearly in the gloom--oh, dear. It was a rock the size of Kate’s own head.

  Kate pushed the nausea away. Her hands were tied, but she managed to fight her way to a sitting position. By the wall, her captoress fumbled with something, then a spark caught and a torch attached to the wall flamed to life, illuminating the small shelf of land with eerie shadows.

  In the back of the space Kate saw bag after bag piled on top of each other. One had ripped open, spilling a mound of coins gleaming dully gold in the torch light. To the side was a pile of wooden boxes. Each was marked with a number and the legend Household, Kitchen.

  She nodded to the boxes. “Is that it? The machine you used to press the coins?”

  Miss Radish turned to her, smiling in the flickering light. A small woman, she loomed over Kate like a giantess. In novels this was usually the part where the villain, laughing maniacally and with an evil dueling scar on the side of his cheek went crazily mad and confessed to his crimes before the hero came and shot him.

  Kate looked hopefully toward the doorway, but no hero showed up, and Miss Radish wasn’t laughing, maniacally or otherwise. Instead, she was alarmingly brisk and matter-of-fact.

  “You cannot know how very much in the way you’ve been, Katherine.” Miss Radish produced a rope which she proceeded to tie around and around the rock, knotting it at strategic intervals. “That’s actually the reason we chose young Bertie to incriminate, to try to scare you off. But you accidentally tumbled to the correct answer.” She looked at Kate disapprovingly, as if Kate had blotted her copy book or was wearing a long-sleeved gown, when the rage was all for short sleeves.

  “You know, Katherine, I was a good friend of your dear mama’s. Many’s the time I dandled you on my knee when you were an infant.” She shook her head. “What dear Rachel would say if she were here I’m sure I don’t know. But this is going to be terribly difficult for me, Katherine, for I really quite like you.”