A Christmas Return

by Anne Perry

  He smiled again. “Tell me about Mr. Wesley. What sort of man was he?”

  Mariah kept her temper only because she had to.

  “I do not speak about my friends to newspaper reporters,” she replied without raising her voice. “I am speaking to you at all only as a courtesy. I will answer your questions of fact. I am not going to write your article for you.”

  “You are afraid of saying something that is not to his credit?” Roberts observed.

  She looked at him coldly. “If you are attempting to make me lose my temper, young man, you are wasting both your time and mine. I can add nothing to the facts that you should already know. I do not know who killed Christina Abbott. I do not know what evidence the police had in the case against Dr. Durward, or anyone else, nor do I know why Mr. Wesley withdrew from it. I do not know anything more of Mr. Wesley’s death than you may read in the newspapers of the time. If the police have any knowledge now that they had not then, you will have to gain it from them. I have no idea.”

  He regarded her carefully. “You are so discreet, Mrs. Ellison, it makes me wonder what you are hiding. Nothing you say is spontaneous. You have prepared well for this interview, weighing every answer. You pique my curiosity. What are you hiding?”

  She felt the heat rise up her face. She was quite aware that he was deliberately provoking her, and yet she had to stop herself from snapping back at him. He would use her words against her, or against Cullen or Rowena.

  She forced herself to smile, although she felt it was more a baring of her teeth.

  “I do not know the answers. I must think carefully before I speak to you, in case I accidentally misinform you…through lack of care rather than intent to deceive. Would you prefer me to speak rashly? Surely your duty to your readers is to write what is true?”

  If he detected any sarcasm in her, he did not show it.

  He began again, with more questions about Rowena. They were phrased as concern, but they were intrusive, even prurient. It was a foretaste of what might be to come. She was glad Rowena was not up to answer them herself. She would have been embarrassed, even mortified by some of them. He would have twisted her emotion and the unintended tears into remorse, or worse, fear.

  Finally, she did lose her temper.

  “Does your mother know what you do?” she said tartly, her eyebrows raised. “And how you do it?”

  He looked startled.

  “That would make an interesting article, don’t you think?” she went on. “How does a woman face her neighbors, her friends, should she have any, and explain how her son twists the words of the frightened and bereaved, so as to make them seem dirty? Tell me, do you ever question anyone who has the ability to fight back? Pursue those you love? Do you have a wife? Children? Are they proud of you? Or afraid?”

  “Really, Mrs. Ellison—” he protested.

  She rose to her feet, lifting her weight a little by leaning on the arms of the chair. “Of course you don’t!” she answered her own question. “If you did, you would leave them open to retaliation, and you wouldn’t be so foolish. Now that I have told you what little I know, you can share it with…what is the collective noun for journalists? A pack? You are less like hunters, more like carrion feeders. You go after the already wounded—or dead. I know it is a ‘murder’ of crows. That seems appropriate.” She glared at him and was satisfied to see the color rise in his face. “I shall have the footman show you out.”

  Peter was waiting for her in the sitting room. “Are you all right?” he asked with some concern. “They can be pretty…harsh…” He rose to his feet and came to her, as if he would guide her to a chair.

  “So can I!” she said more sharply than she had meant to. She would not like Peter to have seen her temper. He knew her only as she had been in this house, where she cared for the people inside. She would like him to keep that opinion of her. She disliked admitting it, but she cared very much what he thought of her, and not only because he reminded her of Cullen. She would dearly have liked a son, or a grandson, like him.

  She sat down, without his assistance, suddenly tired. She did not realize how tense she had been, how afraid of making an error.

  The footman came almost immediately. He looked pleased with himself. He even smiled at her. Had he been listening at the door?

  “The young man has gone, Mrs. Ellison,” he said with satisfaction.

  Mariah felt a faint heat in her cheeks. “Were you listening?” she asked.

  He remained perfectly calm. “I remained near the door, ma’am, in case he should give you any trouble…or you might…wish for something.”

  Her perspective changed completely. “Thank you. That was most considerate of you,” she said gravely. It was perfectly ridiculous, of course, but she liked having his approval, and his loyalty.

  She spent the afternoon with Peter and, for a short time, Rowena.

  “If not Durward—and we need to consider that possibility,” she began unhappily, ignoring Rowena’s dismay—“then who? Cullen believed he could defend Durward. Could he have done that without any other possibility being suggested?” She looked toward Rowena.

  “He didn’t discuss that sort of thing with me,” she said miserably. “But he did believe he could succeed. He told me that.”

  “Then either he had an idea of how to prove Durward innocent, showing him to be somewhere else, or that he did not have the ability, the weapon, or whatever was used,” Mariah reasoned, turning to Peter for assurance. “Or else he had another equally believable person to suspect.”

  “How does that help?” Rowena asked.

  “Because it changed,” Mariah replied. “Something changed so Cullen could not defend him any longer.”

  Rowena’s face was almost without color. “I told you, Mariah! Durward must have told him about my…my misjudgment!” She sounded desperate, looking away from Peter as if he would read the whole story in her face.

  Peter looked at Mariah too, the question unmistakable in his eyes.

  How much truth was necessary? Once told, it could never be untold.

  “You are making too much of it,” Mariah said dismissively. “You were embarrassed because he misunderstood, or pretended to. He would not be so stupid as to risk losing the best lawyer in the county over such a trifle. Nor would Cullen have believed it for a moment. Really, Rowena! Was Cullen that kind of man?”

  “No…but…” Rowena did not know how to finish. She stared miserably toward the window and the bare garden, branches stark against a gray sky.

  Mariah turned to Peter. “Cullen believed Durward was innocent and was willing to defend him rather than try to plead insanity, which would be about the only excuse for such a monstrous crime. Then he changed his mind. We need to know what he believed to begin with, and find the fact that changed it.”

  “How on earth can we do that?” Rowena said wearily. “All his papers relating to the case went to the lawyer who took over from him. I can’t even remember his name now. Anyway, he died several years ago. He wasn’t a young man. And he got Durward off! Even if he was guilty, and we could prove it, which we can’t, what good would it do now?”

  Mariah felt disheartened herself. What good would it do, indeed?

  “It would prove that Grandfather left the case for a good reason!” Peter said, but there was a note of despair in his voice too. “And it had nothing to do with you.” He looked at Rowena, then reached over and put his hand on her arm. “Grandmother, Durward is suggesting that you had something to do with Grandfather’s death, because he discovered something about you that he couldn’t live with. Something that Durward told him. I’m sorry you have to hear it. I would have kept it from you if I could, but that’s what the newspapers are digging for. And sooner or later, some wretched person in the village is going to say enough to feed the gossip.”

  Her voice was a whisper. “I’ve heard it already, my dear. Cullen knew all sorts of things about people, because he was their lawyer. They imagine I knew them too, but
they’re quite wrong. He never told me anything. He was an honorable man! He was nothing like what they are suggesting. It’s…vile!”

  “Then we must fight,” Peter replied. “Mustn’t we, Mariah?”

  It was a challenge, and the first time he had called her directly by name. Perhaps it was impertinent from a man his age, or perhaps it was affectionate, as if they were somehow related.

  “We must,” she agreed. “And we will begin by going to see Owen Durward. Peter, you will find out where he is staying and arrange for us to call upon him. By ‘us’ I mean you and me. Rowena will stay here, and definitely not speak to anyone who might call. You are ill, do you understand? We cannot afford to be misquoted, or forced to defend anything until we have the weapons with which to do it.”

  “Yes, Mariah,” Rowena said wearily. “I have no wish to speak to anyone.”

  “You can look at Cullen’s diaries and papers and see if you can find any reference to Durward, or Christina, or anything else that may be helpful. I shall sort them out while Peter is making our arrangements.” It was not a question; it was an order.

  Rowena did not reply, but neither did she argue.

  Mariah and Peter went together to see Owen Durward late in the afternoon. At this time of year, just a few days before Christmas, it was dark by four o’clock, especially on a gray and windy day with rain threatening. Walking was not a pleasure, but with no luggage to carry, it was not far. They walked in companionable silence. There was nothing further to discuss, and neither of them felt like making conversation. Their footsteps on the pavement were the only sounds.

  Mariah was horribly aware of how close they were to complete failure, and she did not want to say anything that would allow her mood to darken Peter’s spirits even further. He had turned to her for help and she was failing him.

  Durward was staying at the inn, but he had taken a large sitting room as well as a bedroom, which afforded him privacy where he could receive whomever he chose.

  He answered the door of his room, looking first at Peter, barely noticing Mariah. He was a tall man, striking in appearance with thick iron-gray hair and a face that might have been handsome, were it a little less predatory.

  “Good afternoon, Wesley,” he said with a very slight twist of humor. “I’m not at all sure what I can do for you. As I recall, you were a child when we last met and this whole wretched affair began. So you are hardly to blame for any of it. Come in.” He stepped aside to allow Peter to pass.

  Then his eye fell on Mariah. “Mrs. Ellison! What a pleasant surprise that you are still with us. Please come in also.” His expression was impossible to read. He was perhaps twenty years younger than she, but he managed to make it sound like several generations.

  She went in and sat down without comment. She had not expected courtesy from him. That he received them at all was sufficient.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Wesley?” Durward asked, still speaking only to Peter. “If you have come to apologize, it is misplaced. You had no part in the matter.” He lifted one shoulder very slightly. It was a curiously dismissive gesture. “If, on the other hand, you have come to ask me not to try to reinstate my reputation, you must surely realize that your journey is pointless. I want to return to Haslemere, and I cannot do that until I have demonstrated not only that the law has no claim on me, but that I was wrongly accused in the first place. To do that, I imagine you appreciate that I have no need to prove I was innocent of Christina’s death, but that Cullen Wesley’s death resulted from his own unfortunate domestic affairs, and was in no way my fault. I have lived under this shadow for twenty years. I will not do so any longer.”

  Peter drew in his breath, but it was Mariah who spoke.

  “Why now, Mr. Durward? Why, after all this time, rake up the matter again?”

  He turned to her, his eyebrows raised, his voice edged with irritation. “Your question is pointless, madam. I choose to. If you think a plea that so much time has elapsed will deter me, you are more of a fool than I had thought.”

  “I was not looking for mercy!” Mariah snapped. “I was curious. It is a dangerous thing you are doing. For you, as well as for others. You must have a reason. Something to gain?” She emphasized the last word with the same ugly edge to her voice as he had used.

  He was surprised. It was clear in the momentary hesitation in his face. “You are quite right. There is no reason to hide it. I am going to marry a woman of good family, and standing. A widow. I cannot expect her to live under this shadow of…unpleasantness.”

  “A widow with money, no doubt,” Mariah responded.

  Durward shot her a look that, for a moment, frightened her. Then his face smoothed into a smile. “She is also charming, Mrs. Ellison, of a gentle nature and great kindness. Such qualities are rare.” His implication about Mariah was clear.

  “In your acquaintance, perhaps,” she said instantly. “I can see that you do not wish her to perceive such a cloud hanging over your head. But since you have already been tried and found not guilty, surely the case is settled. You do not need to live here in Haslemere, where the matter will always be of some pain.”

  “Certainly I have been proven not guilty of the girl’s death,” he agreed. “But you are missing the point. Cullen Wesley was also killed and violently so, Mrs. Ellison. No one believed the fiction that he overbalanced the bookcase on himself, and the idiotic ornamental cannonball struck him on the head as the whole thing collapsed. He too was murdered! No one was charged with that.” There was anger in his face now, completely undisguised.

  “I see.” The ice she felt inside was painful, like an old terror brought back complete. She had seen that same look in her husband’s eyes, before he had struck her or worse. She had never stood up to him, but now was her chance to defend herself at last. She would not be a coward this time, whatever the cost to her.

  “And you are afraid that you will be charged?” she said with a very slight smile. He would never know that her stomach was churning and she could hardly breathe. “I understand. It is a very reasonable fear. He had suddenly withdrawn from defending you. We would assume it was because he had discovered something about you that was indefensible. So you had to be certain he would remain silent. His word was not enough. To a man who had no honor himself, it was unimaginable that he would keep his word.” She took a shallow breath. She must say it all now; she might never have another chance. “Were you afraid he would blackmail you for the rest of your life?”

  The silence in the room seemed to throb, like a living thing.

  Peter stared at her, struggling to grasp what she had said.

  Slowly Durward’s face changed, an ugly, mottled color coming to his cheeks.

  “Blackmail? How like a woman. I see now why you are Mrs. Wesley’s friend. You were here then, weren’t you! Plain, dumpy, ill-tempered Mrs. Ellison seemed such an unlikely friend for the pretty, unsatisfied Mrs. Wesley. But you were her confidante, her acolyte, living your own frustrated dreams through her!”

  Peter half rose in his chair. “Mrs. Ellison has been our family’s friend through good times and bad!” he said furiously, his voice low and very clear. “Yes, she is bad-tempered, but she’s brave and she’s clever, and she’s loyal. You are none of these things. All you can do is seek to destroy those who are better than you are.”

  “Sit down, you fool!” Durward raised his voice, then calmed it again. “You know nothing. You think your grandfather was some kind of saint? He was a weak man strutting around the stage of a small town, playing at being a lawyer.” He leaned forward a little, ignoring Mariah now, all his malice bent upon Peter. “Your grandmother was a pretty woman, not beautiful, but pleasing in an empty way. He couldn’t satisfy anything in her, not her hunger and not her dreams. She threw herself at me. It was pathetic, and in its way, revolting.” He relished the word, licking his lips as if he meant to repeat it. “I rejected her. I had to! Neither of them ever forgave me for it. She was humiliated. He felt insulted beyond bearing.
His wife had offered herself to another man and been turned down. He couldn’t live with it.”

  “You are saying he hit his own head with a cannonball?” Mariah said incredulously. “Little wonder you are afraid no one will believe you.”

  “How did he even know about it?” Peter asked, returning to his chair.

  Mariah stared at Durward. “You told him!” she accused. “Why? And why in heaven’s name would he believe you?” She looked him up and down as if he were repulsive. In her own mind she was looking at her husband as she should have done years ago.

  “I had to!” Now he was glaring at her. “How could I trust a man to defend me, when that secret was waiting to be revealed? In my place, would you have trusted your life in the hands of a man whose wife had thrown herself at you?” He turned to Peter. “Would you?”

  Mariah saw the hurt in Peter’s struggling face.

  She answered for him, looking straight at Durward. “If I were someone who had never broken my word, or acted out of spite or personal revenge, then I probably would,” she said. “On the other hand, if I were selfish, a liar, jealous of better men than I, then I would probably expect them to act the same way. A thief thinks everyone else steals also. You explain yourself very well.” She ignored Durward’s tensing body, moving forward in his chair as if he would lunge at her. “And even if you were guilty, he would have defended you, which is the part of it that puzzles me. At least to begin with, he intended to do that. What changed his mind, Mr. Durward?”

  “Dr. Durward,” he corrected her sharply. “And I have already told you that. But you are so besotted with him you refuse to believe it. He could not hold his wife’s interest or affection, and when he discovered that she had offered herself, very explicitly, to me, and that I had been embarrassed and repulsed by it, he hated me with the passion and venom only a weak man can have. It is not my fault that you cannot see that.” His eyes were unmoving on her face. “But I can do all in my power to see that it is believed! Perhaps when the whole town knows it at last, then you will be obliged to accept, or appear even more ridiculous than you do now. At least, so far, you have kept your folly more or less to yourself. Do you not mind being a laughingstock? An object of pity?”