A Christmas Return

by Anne Perry

  Mariah could picture Rowena. She had fair hair that curled naturally, and the sort of complexion every woman desired. She even had a dimple when she laughed. In spite of herself, Mariah had liked her.

  What would she find this time, when she got to Haslemere? She did not want to think of it, yet it stayed on the edge of her mind for all except brief moments of the journey.

  The countryside, which in the summer was so rich and beautiful, now had a wild look. The gold of the harvest fields was reduced to dark stubble in some places; in others the land was already ploughed over and sown with winter wheat. The copses of trees that were once in full leaf, billowing green like lost clouds, were now skeletal, black arms stretched upward toward lowering skies.

  There were parts of Mariah’s mind that loved the lean beauty of this season. Nothing was really dead, only resting, withdrawn into itself to prepare for spring and new life. It did that every year, regardless of the men and women who lived on it, who husbanded it, or did not; even of those who defiled it. It had a truth to itself it never lost.

  She reached the village station in the early afternoon and for almost an hour was occupied with the business of getting her cases onto the platform and finding a porter to assist her with them, then getting transport the few hundred yards to the largest inn, where she hoped to spend the first night. She must consider what to do. She had already decided that simply to arrive on Rowena’s doorstep with cases, as if she assumed she was welcome to stay, would be both discourteous and embarrassing. She would find her own lodgings and then visit. Even that was not going to be easy. Peter had told her there was a terrible issue facing the family, but it was not his house to invite her into. Rowena quite possibly knew nothing of Mariah’s impending visit.

  It was twenty years since it had all happened, when Owen Durward had been accused of the tragic murder of young Christina Abbot, but as she walked into the hallway of the inn, still named the Black Bull as it had been for centuries, it could have been twenty days. The oak paneling and the beamed ceilings were the same, but small things had changed. The Christmas tree with its ornaments was new. There were new curtains of an unfortunate shade of green. The old ones had been red. Much better.

  The host was still Mr. Fletcher, noticeably fatter than before. Too much sampling of his own hospitality, no doubt. His hair was receding, and what there was of it was gray, but his face had the same bland satisfaction she recalled from the past.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Fletcher,” she said as pleasantly as she could. “Mrs. Mariah Ellison. I have just arrived from London. I hope you can offer me the hospitality of your establishment, for a night or two?”

  He took a long, deep breath. Clearly he did not remember her. But he must have had thousands of guests through this prosperous place since she had last been here. She had no intention of reminding him of her previous stay in the village.

  “A single room, Mrs. Ellison? Of course.” He smiled. “You are fortunate. We can offer you one of our best.” He named a considerable price. “Will that be acceptable, ma’am?”

  “Quite,” she said without a flicker. Emily would meet the cost, if that was necessary. Emily had more money than she knew what to do with, and she would approve of this venture. Her only complaint would be that she had not been included in it. But she was away in Paris for Christmas, with her second husband, Jack, a young man Mariah had disapproved of intensely, to begin with. She had thought him a fortune hunter, after the rich widow Emily’s money, and far too handsome for his own good, or anyone else’s. But she had learned, with patience, that he was actually quite responsible, and as charming to Mariah as he was to anyone else. His patience, actually, not hers, had settled their relationship into an amicable one. But that had all been before she went to Romney Marsh a year ago, when during the course of investigating a woman’s murder she had discovered within herself a very different woman from the old Mariah—one she liked far better.

  The room was all that Fletcher had said it would be. It was on the first floor and overlooked the gardens at the back of the building. The windows were mullioned, probably a conceit, but one she quite liked. The little lead strips dividing the panes into diamonds gave her the feeling of privacy, without losing the light. And at least up here the curtains were still red. The bed was large and comfortable, with plenty of covers.

  She was glad to unpack the few belongings she had brought. She certainly did not need a maid for so little, and more importantly, she had no wish to bring a maid with her on what was an acutely personal visit, digging up a past that might prove painful and embarrassing. Now that she was here, she was full of misgiving. If Rowena was in trouble, what earthly use would Mariah be? She had accomplished nothing before! Cullen was still dead. Christina Abbott was still dead, poor child. Presumably her death was also still unsolved.

  After she had washed her face, tidied her hair and composed herself, it was nearly four o’clock. She would go downstairs and have afternoon tea. If spoken to properly, there were always servants who would inform visitors of the local news and events—gossip, if one cared to use the term. She must learn all she could before calling upon Rowena, and presumably Peter.

  She went downstairs to the withdrawing room. It was very cozy, especially at this time of year. There were Christmas decorations of red candles, garlands of leaves with ribbons wound through them, and pinecones with holly and a dusting of tinsel and silver powder of some sort. It was cheerful, and not too exuberant.

  She seated herself at one of the small tables and ordered a pot of tea and a plate of toasted crumpets with butter and honey. It would fortify her for the decisions she must make.

  While she was waiting for the maid to return with her tray, she looked around the room. There were several other ladies present. Two sat together and talked quietly. One sat alone, reading a newspaper. Perhaps it was the court news, or fashion she was looking at. One would hope it was not some of the unsavory tittle-tattle that the less reputable papers held—so she was told.

  A young man came in. He glanced around, and then chose a seat facing the door. Possibly he was waiting for someone.

  Mariah received her tea and crumpets and for several minutes lost herself in complete enjoyment of the crisp delicacies, soaked in butter and honey, and the hot, fragrant tea. It was quite deliberate. She would have to face the truth soon, but a few more moments of indulgence would strengthen her for it.

  Another young man, thinner and darker than the first, came in and sat down, also alone. He glanced at the man who had come in before him, nodded a little curtly, and began to write something with a pencil in a small notebook. A few moments later he was joined by a third young man.

  The maid came back in. “Is your tea all right, ma’am?” she asked politely.

  “Excellent,” Mariah said graciously. “It looks as if you have more customers. There seem to be several young men here, alone…” It was not quite a question, but she hoped it would elicit an enlightening comment.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The maid nodded. “I think they’re all from newspapers and the like. Never know whether they’re friends or rivals to each other. One minute they’re speaking, the next they’re not.”

  “Good gracious. Is there so much to write about in Haslemere?” Mariah feigned incredulity but she also felt rather fearful.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am.” The maid bit her lip. “I’m afraid you’ve come at a…a funny time.”

  “You will have to tell me.” Mariah blinked. “I’m afraid I am not from here, and I didn’t know that…”

  “It happened a long time ago, ma’am.” The maid nodded again, smiling. “I was a babe in arms, but my ma told me about it.”

  Mariah drew in her breath. This was the very subject she needed to learn about but she knew she must be very careful. “Indeed? Then what can these young men want now?”

  “It was terrible, ma’am. No one’s really forgotten it. A young girl, just fourteen years old, she was. Christina was her name. She was taken…”<
br />
  “You mean she was…ill?” Mariah pretended ignorance.

  “No, ma’am. Taken away, kidnapped. It was terrible.” The maid lowered her voice. “They found her body. It was unspeakable what they done to her. A man were arrested, but when ’e went to trial, they found ’e wasn’t guilty. They never got who really done it.”

  “Do they have him now, then?” Mariah said innocently, but there was a chill inside her, a sense of foreboding that almost choked her voice. The girl must have heard it in her.

  “No, ma’am. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m terribly sorry. I shouldn’t be upsetting guests. Mr. Fletcher’ll have my job…”

  “No he won’t!” Mariah said sharply. “I asked you a question and you very civilly answered me. I would be less than human if I did not think the matter very tragic indeed. But why does it arise just now, so many years later?”

  “ ’Cos ’e’s come back, ma’am.”

  “He? Who has come back?”

  “Dr. Durward, ma’am. Him as was accused wrong. ’E wants to prove as ’e didn’t do it, even though ’e was found not guilty. Least that’s what everyone is saying. It’s raking up all sorts o’ memories, an’ upsetting folk just before Christmas, an’ all.”

  “Indeed.” Mariah kept her voice as level as she could. So Owen Durward was going to rake it all up again. He had been tried and found not guilty. That meant he could never be tried for that hideous crime again, no matter what was turned up now. But why? In heaven’s name, what good would it do him, or anyone else, to raise such terrible ghosts?

  More memories came back to her, ones she had tried to force into oblivion. There had been all kinds of accusations, some against Rowena, not of course that she’d had anything to do with Christina’s death. Cullen had been the best lawyer in the area of several towns and villages. He had been retained to defend Durward, and had worked hard on the case.

  Then quite out of the blue, he had told Durward that he was unable to continue. Durward had been furious. He had claimed that Cullen’s behavior was appalling. To refuse to continue at this late stage, just before the trial was due to begin, was an unforgivable prejudice against him.

  That evening Cullen Wesley had had a fatal accident in his study at home. A bookcase had toppled over, knocking him to the ground. An ornamental cannonball, extremely heavy, had struck his head. He had never regained consciousness.

  Another lawyer had been found for Durward, and three weeks later he had been acquitted of all charges.

  Then the gossip about Rowena had begun. Durward was a good-looking man, after a fashion, and more than one village woman had set her cap at him—to no avail. Rowena’d had friends, but she’d had enemies as well. Gossip was unkind. Mariah was still stunned, and ashamed at her own misjudgment of the situation.

  Rowena’s son had died some time before all this. Her grandson, Peter, had been a child. And Cullen Wesley was dead. Quiet, generous, witty Cullen was gone, all except for memories of him so sharp they hurt, so full of loneliness that even now Mariah felt the tears well up in her eyes.

  What on earth must Rowena have felt? And still feel all over again now!

  This must be why Peter had sent for Mariah. Even though he had been only ten years old at the time, in his own way he’d known that Mariah had cared. Please heaven, he did not know how much, or in what manner!

  He did not need reason. The trial was over. Durward was pronounced not guilty, and Cullen was buried in the local churchyard. Only Rowena was left to be hounded by newspaper reporters, and nosy, cruel people who stilled their own dreams of loneliness or failure by waking old stories to haunt other people.

  Mariah Ellison had had her own taste of rage, humiliation and pain too fierce to bear, too strong and too close to escape, except by the mercy of death.

  But that was an old story. The humiliation had been at the hands of her husband, not the community, and although it lent Mariah sympathy for Rowena’s plight, it had nothing to do with this.

  “Thank you,” she said to the maid.

  “You all right, ma’am?” the girl asked again. She must have seen the tears in Mariah’s eyes. “Can I get you another cup o’ tea? Fresh, like?”

  She did not really want any more tea, but none of this was the girl’s fault. She would feel better if she could do something.

  “Thank you. That would be most kind.”

  Having more tea was not only calming, it gave her a good reason to remain in the room and very quietly, very discreetly listen to some of the conversation around her. Another couple of ladies came in and were obliged to find a table closer to Mariah’s, therefore offering her an opportunity to overhear their exchanges in some detail.

  Perhaps it was necessary, but it was a mixed blessing. Gossip was entertaining, but only if it did not involve oneself or the people one cared about. Otherwise it was painful. Mariah had never dared argue with her husband, even less offer any criticism, when he was alive. She had lied for so long about the nature of her marriage, even to herself, that it had come as something of a relief, this last year, to be able to acknowledge it. But that was very far indeed from speaking of it to others. There lies must be upheld, always! For others to know would be unbearable.

  But the knowledge she’d fostered within herself had made her see a different side to many arguments, a softer and far more complicated one. It also made her see the poison of gossip.

  Now she heard it from the table next to her.

  “Of course, you never can tell,” the fairer-haired of the two women said, shaking her head. “One would have thought, to look at her, that she was one of the most respectable of women.”

  “And happy,” her darker companion added sagely. “It’s always easier to be good when you’re happy.” She nodded, agreeing with herself.

  “A good man, Cullen Wesley.” The fair woman pursed her lips. “Just goes to show!”

  “Show what?”

  “Why, that appearances can be deceiving! Perhaps he wasn’t as interesting as one would assume?”

  “Or he had a wandering eye himself?” The fair woman leaned forward a little to confide. “There was another woman staying with them, you know? Perhaps there was more to that than met the eye also?”

  “Rubbish! She was as plain as a cabbage, and with a temperament like vinegar.” The second woman’s brief gesture of the hand dismissed the very idea.

  Mariah froze. Was that really how people saw her? A cabbage? A boiled vegetable with vinegar? The pain of the idea was almost numbing. She refused to think that Cullen had seen her like that. It was unbearable.

  “I thought she was quite clever,” the fair woman resumed. “Pretty can become tedious after a while. Like blancmange. Nothing really to it. Every mouthful is the same.”

  “Saves you having to think,” her friend said, pointing out its virtue.

  Mariah ached to join the conversation, with a remark about vinegar perhaps, or stale food that has been left too long in the larder and has turned sour.

  They would be affronted, and demand to know who on earth she was.

  “The cabbage,” would be the reply.

  But she was not here to pick quarrels, only to help Rowena. Clearly it was going to be very difficult. There were people whose tongues could lacerate, and neither truth nor mercy would still them. It had little to do with fact, and everything to do with their own insecurities drawing them to such opinions.

  She rose to her feet, leaving aside the last crumpet, and walked out of the withdrawing room and up to her bedroom. She did not even glare at the women as she passed them. She must wipe from her mind their very existence. What she had heard was nothing more than a means to impel her forward. This evening she would plan. Tomorrow she would visit Rowena. If it was not raining, the house was within walking distance. Actually, in the last year, since visiting Romney Marsh, she had felt stronger and fitter. Her cane was a weapon, not an assistance to weariness or uncertain balance. She had no need of it. But now she was going to battle wi
th her wits, not any physical accoutrements. Her tongue had always been her sharpest and most agile weapon. She wished now that she had had the courage to use it to defend herself against her husband’s abuse. Cowards don’t like to be faced down!

  He had beaten her but in her fear and humiliation, she had not fought back. It was her self-disgust at being unable to do so that had imprisoned her all these years.

  Well, she was free now! And she would fight against Durward, and anyone else who chose to get in her way. All the misery of past battles lost could be assuaged if she won this time. But she must be more than angry, more even than brave: she must be clever. First thing in the morning, after breakfast, she would go to see Rowena. Never mind old memories and any sense of embarrassment.

  The morning was bitterly cold. It was dry, thank goodness, but the wind had an edge like a freshly whetted knife and Mariah decided it would be unwise to walk. Finding transport was not difficult. The innkeeper knew all the local tradesmen and providers of a dozen different services.

  The carriage, when it arrived, exactly on time, was little more than a gig, but it was quite sufficient. The driver assisted her up and spread a blanket over her lap.

  It was a short journey, not more than a mile at most, but very pleasant. The village had barely changed since she was last here, perhaps only a new shop or two on the High Street. There were garlands on some of the doors, brightly painted notices wishing people a happy Christmas.

  Of course all the front gardens of the houses were almost bare, but laurel bushes and holly were in full leaf, and here and there other evergreens. It all looked so comfortable, and ordinary, it was as if nothing violent had ever happened, no hatred, certainly no murder.

  The obliging coachman set her down just outside the Wesley house. It was named Seven Elms, although to her knowledge there had only ever been five, and one of those was now gone.

  She thanked him and paid him generously. She might want him in the future, if this continued. And since enjoying Emily’s hospitality, she had become much less careful in her use of money. She spared a moment to thank Emily, in her mind, and to stare at the handsome front of the house. Twenty years had not changed it. The window frames had been repainted, but in the same clean white. The vines around the dining-room window were taller but, bare of leaf for the winter, they looked much the same. The roofs were all the same immaculate slate, and the fine weathercock was still very slightly askew.