Beyond the Wild River

by Sarah Maine

  Dalston ignored him and continued. ‘My father, McAllister, and myself all saw James Douglas arguing with the poacher on the far side of the river, we heard a shot and saw the man fall. Ballantyre saw it too. And then he’ – he indicated James – ‘ran off into the woods. My father will swear to this, and he has a statement written by McAllister to the same effect.’

  ‘McAllister himself was killed the same evening. How do you explain that?’ Ballantyre enquired.

  ‘Douglas killed him too, of course, then stole a horse – or was given it, more like – and made off. It’s all really very simple.’

  Melton frowned. ‘Was given it?’

  ‘Pa and I always thought he had help getting away. How else did he disappear so completely? He was penniless! Maybe Ballantyre arranged for him to come over here straight away. Stands to reason, he had business interests in these parts, and no one would think to look—’ He seemed to be warming to his invention.

  James opened his mouth to protest but Melton put up his hand. ‘You’ll have your chance to speak in a moment.’

  Dalston was not done. ‘Why don’t you ask Ballantyre why he has never offered this alternative version until now, five years after the event?’

  ‘And I might counter by asking you why McAllister would feel the need to give your father a written statement, rather than wait to present it at a trial?’

  Dalston hesitated for a second. ‘Because he knew you would try to protect this … this man.’ He waved a contemptuous hand in James’s direction.

  ‘And why would I do that, Rupert?’ asked Ballantyre. ‘Why protect a man who had committed murder on my own estate?’

  James watched Dalston carefully. He was hesitating again and looked like a man about to gamble all on a single throw. ‘Melton knows why, Ballantyre,’ he said, his swollen eye twitching. ‘I told him, you see. Everything. He knows.’ The emphasis was given with a sneer.

  James looked from Dalston to Melton, and then back to Ballantyre. Knew what? Somewhere he had missed something— Melton was looking deeply unhappy, and he saw him glance anxiously in Evelyn’s direction. ‘That aspect need not be addressed in public …’ he said

  ‘Like hell!’ James retorted. Were they closing ranks? Even here—! ‘How was Ballantyre protecting me? And why—’

  Dalston’s eyes darted between Ballantyre and Melton, but it was Ballantyre who answered, his voice flat calm. ‘Because, Dalston claims you had long been my … my Ganymede.’ James looked blank. ‘He accuses me of sodomy, James, and asserts that I had used you as my catamite ever since that first day when I took you under my roof, a child of thirteen. It was his father’s invention, to buy my silence, and McAllister was only too happy to concur.’

  Seconds ticked by in shocked silence, and Evelyn sat in a daze. Then her father’s meaning became clear and she stopped breathing. Ganymede, the beautiful shepherd boy whom Zeus had seen on the mountainside, and had carried off to Mount Olympus to be cupbearer to the gods— She felt the colour flooding into her face, and looked across at James.

  James felt his guts absorbing the kick as Ballantyre’s words found their meaning, and he stared across at him in disbelief. Then fury roared in his ears, but it was a double-edged fury. ‘So you were protecting yourself, in fact. Your reputation—’

  Ballantyre held his look. ‘That was the threat which bought my silence, and my compliance. So – yes, I was.’

  James felt sick. So he had been right all along, except that Ballantyre had not been defending his own, but himself. Defending his wealth, his position, his standing in society against an allegation which would have destroyed him. And to do so Ballantyre had simply thrown him to the wolves—

  Ballantyre’s next words gave confirmation. ‘I was told that one word from me to the effect that Rupert Dalston, in a moment of madness, had shot dead an unarmed man on my land, and that was to be the story splashed across every newspaper in the land. I would be branded a sodomite and a liar, accusing an earl’s son of murder to protect a depraved wretch, a poacher’s brat, who was my paramour. McAllister, it seemed, was only too pleased to sign a confirmation of the allegation, on receipt of a significant sum, and so settle old scores and punish us both – in fact, it suited him very well.’ A deep thrumming sounded in James’s head. Ballantyre was right; McAllister had never missed the opportunity to abuse him whenever he could get under the stable master’s guard, defying Ballantyre, and this opportunity would have delighted him.

  Larsen had felt Evelyn stiffen beside him as her father spoke, surprised that she had understood; then he remembered Ballantyre’s pride in her classical education and realised that her father had chosen his words carefully and with delicacy, so that she would understand—

  But, dear God, even so, she could have no idea what such an accusation would have meant! And her father would have been vulnerable to such an attack, easy prey, as he was well known for his passion for reform amongst the orphanages, for his work in boys’ reformatories and penal establishments. He had made enemies amongst the less enlightened, and his inclusion of the poacher’s young apprentice into his own household had, as Larsen understood, caused a considerable stir amongst his neighbours who had thought such behaviour, at best, eccentric. So Stanton had acted with ruthless acumen, twisting an act of high-principled generosity into a weapon. It was altogether fiendish. Ballantyre would have lost everything, his reputation shredded, and, with all likelihood, he would have ended up imprisoned. And with McAllister’s sworn statement he would have had no defence.

  Then he recalled, with growing clarity, how many years earlier, in those heady days of railway investment, her father had used Ballantyre House to secure a large loan from Stanton. And in the event of Ballantyre resisting him, that loan would surely have been forfeit – and he would have lost the estate too. He stopped, his mind jarring as another, very different thought flew out of nowhere like a black-fletched arrow to lodge in his brain, and slowly a wider understanding began to dawn.

  He glanced up to find that Ballantyre was looking back at him, as if reading his mind, and Larsen saw the muscles tighten in his cheek. ‘My friend Larsen will tell you that I was, at the time, in partnership with Earl Stanton, and heavily in his debt; he held mortgages on my estate, so he was able to promise me financial ruin as well as arrest. But we both knew that it was the accusation of sodomy which would have destroyed me. And mine—’ His glance flickered to his daughter. ‘So you see, James, he left me quite impotent, powerless to resist.’ Larsen looked across to where James Douglas stood, stiff and hostile, arms folded, staring back at him. ‘And he’d have seen you hang without a murmur.’

  Larsen began to calculate quickly, winding back the years, exploring his emergent thought. Five years— Images began to flash across his mind. South Africa: the appalling risks that Ballantyre had taken, then the steady gain, and eventually the huge profits. Railroads: more risks, then losses, money stretched thin. But not Ballantyre’s own money by this time, but the bank’s, borrowed and then loaned to a partnership he had with Stanton, then Stanton alone demanding more loans, big ones, and then extensions with guarantees underwritten by Ballantyre, but anonymously. Larsen sat back in horror as it came together in his mind—

  Somewhere, from a long way off, James heard Dalston scoff at Ballantyre’s words. ‘What utter rubbish. All of it. Except for the central, carnal, facts. Ballantyre is a liar, and was a pederast. Probably still is—’

  But the words made no impact on James. The red mist of anger was thinning, and as it did he was able to examine what Ballantyre had said. The accusation of sodomy which would have destroyed me. He raised his eyes and met Ballantyre’s – he left me quite impotent, powerless to resist … How could that ever have applied to Ballantyre? And it was as if they were alone in a dark place, just the two of them, looking back at each other across five years, once bonded, master and man, but no more. They dealt as equals now. The others faded into blank shadows, and time lost its meaning. And Ballantyre sat there
across from him, his very soul exposed, awaiting James’s judgement. Not humbled, but calmly waiting—

  And in a moment that lasted forever James began to understand, as five years ago he could never have done.

  And as understanding came the anger drained away and it seemed that the jagged charge which had leapt across the river between them that day at Skinner’s dock lost its power to wound and became another sort.

  ‘For God’s sake, man. Look at them. Isn’t it obvious!’ Rupert’s words shattered the moment, and this time James stepped forward, determined at last to smash that face. Evelyn grabbed at his arm, but George was there before her, moving quickly to stand between him and Rupert, holding up both hands. ‘There’ll be no violence here. These are serious allegations which neither man can make without strong evidence—’ George had altered. There was no trace now of the laconic fisherman, the forest clearing had become his courtroom— ‘Evidence which no one seems to have.’

  ‘Doubtless Dalston’s father still has McAllister’s mendacious statement safe somewhere.’ Her father spoke quietly. ‘Stanton showed it to me the night of the murder. But I think you’ll find that’s all he has.’

  ‘Yes, he has it, I feel sure.’ Rupert was looking relaxed, entirely in control. ‘So by all means let us test it in the courts upon our return.’

  ‘And you, Charles, what evidence have you?’

  Here was the nub. Evelyn watched her father’s face carefully, but he still spoke with a calm confidence. ‘In the case of Jacko’s death, the evidence of my own eyes, which only James Douglas can confirm.’ Rupert made a derisive sound. ‘But in the case of McAllister, a little more—’

  ‘Rubbish. You have nothing—’

  Her father gave Dalston another long appraising look, but she began to feel uneasy. He was surely bluffing— If he had had evidence he would have used it.

  ‘Only three men knew that McAllister died not from a stab in the back, as was reported, but that his throat was cut, from ear to ear. That detail was thought too grotesque to unleash upon the guests who were staying at Ballantyre House at the time, and was suppressed. The newspapers then erroneously reported it as a stabbing, and there were few who knew differently other than myself, the constable, and my stable master, who found him. And, it would appear, you knew as well, Dalston. How was that?’

  Rupert shrugged dismissively. ‘I’ve no idea who told me – it was five years ago. My father, probably, when he got home.’

  ‘Yes, you left us late that night, as I recall, although you had only arrived that morning for a weeklong shoot. What was it that called you away?’

  He was trying to unsettle him, but Rupert maintained a bored indifference. ‘After all this time? I’ve no idea—’

  Her father nodded. Still calm. But his face now bore an intense expression, bright-eyed and watchful. It was an expression which, for some reason, Evelyn found oddly familiar. How could that be—? And then she recognised it, and confidence began to creep back. It belonged to those treasured days when she had accompanied him to the riverbank, carrying his fishing basket; it was the expression he wore when he threw out a line, soft and gentle, to land on the water, light as thistledown, looking for a rise. She had seen it when she used to stand there, enthralled, as the coils of line spun out, catching the sunlight before falling straight and true. But now he was throwing across the wind—

  ‘My memory by contrast,’ he was saying, ‘is unimpaired. I ordered you off my property that night, Rupert, and your father left at first light after a long and acrimonious discussion. So neither of you saw the corpse or had any reason to know that McAllister’s throat was slit.’

  Rupert looked only a little discomforted. ‘Maybe so. But what does it matter? Stabbed or throat slit – I’d little interest in the case. It had nothing to do with me.’

  Her father threw again. ‘Sinclair saddled your horse for you that night, just before midnight, and found McAllister’s body in the shrubbery when he came to find me on the terrace, to tell me that you’d gone. I remember very clearly, the man’s blood was still congealing when I went back with him; McAllister was newly dead.’

  It was a weak throw and she began to realise with a sickening certainty that her father, in truth, had nothing. It would only ever be his word against theirs—

  Rupert must have thought the same. ‘Rot. He was found in the morning. That much was in the papers—’

  ‘So you did take an interest?’ Rupert waved a dismissive hand. ‘But you see, Sinclair and I had moved him to an outbuilding that evening, as he was littering the shrubbery and I had guests to think of. This was explained to the authorities, and noted. But he was killed just about the time you left, no doubt when you encountered him on your way to the stables.’ His last fly floated innocently away on the current.

  Dalston let it drift by. ‘For God’s sake. What possible reason had I to kill McAllister?’ Then, unwisely, he rose to it after all. ‘Quite the opposite. He was a key witness.’

  ‘Key to what?’

  Rupert looked confused, and his colour changed. ‘The case against James Douglas, of course.’

  ‘You were building a case! But why?’ Her father tightened the line.

  Rupert’s good eye blinked rapidly. ‘Melton, for God’s sake! Must I put up with this interrogation?’

  ‘Yes. You made a serious accusation—’

  Evelyn felt a jolt of joy. Was George’s position shifting?

  Rupert stared at his friend. ‘Alright, then,’ he snapped. ‘But it was obvious that James Douglas killed McAllister, he must have been skulking in the grounds at the same time.’

  These last words electrified her, and suddenly she knew that she had something to offer. ‘No. He wasn’t. He was in Papa’s study.’ All heads swivelled to her. ‘With me.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ asked George.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Rupert cried, exasperated. ‘Now this for the first time too … She’s just making things up, and I can guess why. Seems to me these last few days young Ganymede’s appeal has widened— How old were you, Evelyn? Thirteen, fourteen?’

  But she was looking at George and answered his question. ‘I was searching for Papa, so I went to the study, but I found James instead, emptying Papa’s cash box into a saddlebag.’

  There was silence, then Rupert let out a whoop of delight. ‘And you offer this in his defence? My dear girl!’

  The endearment was like acid, burning through veneer, and she looked back at him, fearless now. ‘And he had been there long enough to break the window, smash the drawer of the bureau, and prise open the cash box.’ Everyone was staring at her but she continued to address George. ‘Coins were spilled across the desk when I arrived, and then we spoke for a while. If McAllister died just before midnight, then it wasn’t James that killed him. He was with me.’ And she looked across at James and saw his eyes gleam in response.

  ‘How can you be so sure of the time?’ George asked sharply.

  ‘I heard the stable clock, and then the fireworks started.’ And there was the smell of cordite which had haunted her down the years, but if that moment could now be turned to good use, it would haunt her no more.

  Rupert started to get to his feet, but Louis pulled him back. Rupert cursed him, shrugging off his grip, only then becoming conscious of the two men behind him. ‘Melton, this is a travesty! You know it is. You’ve absolutely no authority to question me, nor have these men hold me – for God’s sake I had no reason to kill McAllister.’

  But George’s face remained rigid, and he nodded to her father to continue.

  His next cast went farther. ‘Except to nip in the bud any further attempts at blackmail.’

  The frown on Rupert’s face suggested that he was becoming confused. Would he rise to that one? He hesitated. Then ‘But, for God’s sake, why would he try to blackmail me?’

  Almost.

  ‘Or perhaps you simply wanted to retrieve from his person a draft for one thousand pounds drawn on
your father’s bank.’

  Dalston blanched, and his eye twitched again. ‘What—?’ Then, with bluster, ‘There was no such draft.’

  ‘My dear Dalston, I’d seen it. The scoundrel had shown it to me, and offered to retract the statement he had given to your father if I would double the amount. The draft was found on him.’

  Dalston rose angrily to that one. ‘It was not. That is a lie!’

  Follow through, she willed him silently, knowing somehow that he must.

  And he did. ‘How so?’

  ‘Because I’d—’ said Rupert and then stopped.

  She could almost see her father’s wrist twist on the invisible rod. ‘— already taken it off him?’ He jerked the line hard, and drove the hook in, beyond the barb. ‘Thank you, Dalston.’

  ‘No! Damn you. No—’ Rupert swore furiously, and tried again to stand, but Louis and Marcel between them clamped him to his seat where he thrashed like a trout in the tangle of a net, cursing them, still protesting wildly to George.

  Chapter 28

  The tension broke with Dalston’s curses, and everyone began to speak at once. Larsen got stiffly to his feet, a hundred years older than when he had sat down, and offered Ballantyre his flask. Ballantyre accepted it, although Larsen saw him pause, the flask half-raised, and look across to where his daughter had leapt to her feet and was now held close in James’s embrace.

  Melton was staring at Dalston, even as Dalston still tried to convince him that it was a pack of lies, that he was innocent of all charges, but Melton just stared back in horror. Skinner remained seated, understandably bewildered by the entire proceedings, but eventually it was his voice that carried above the rest.

  ‘Jeez. So. What happens now?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Skinner. A timely thought,’ said Ballantyre. ‘I should like Dalston to sign a document which I prepared in readiness some time ago and have been carrying with me, but I’d like you to cast your eye over it first, George, as I’ll ask you to witness it. You too, Niels, if you will.’