by Anne Perry
“I care what I am, Dr. Durward, not what others may imagine me to be,” she snapped back. “I don’t live here. And any contempt these people may have for me is well matched by mine for them, if they turn against Mrs. Wesley, whom they have known all their lives.”
“Bravo! Well said. I wonder if you will say it so bravely and with such conviction when Mrs. Wesley is laughed at, and Mr. Wesley’s pathetic jealousy is known?” Durward leaned forward a little farther, until his face was only a couple of feet from hers. “And when she is charged with murdering him, will she then tell us all that she did so in self-defense, because he attacked her for her…prostitution of herself to me? Will she thank you for threatening me into defending myself by exposing her?”
Peter rose to his feet.
“Mariah is not afraid of you, Dr. Durward. She may be old, and a woman alone, but she will not give in to you, and neither will I.”
“And your grandmother?” Durward asked, also standing now. “Do you think she will thank you for this, from whatever prison they take her to before they hang her?”
“You are ahead of yourself.” Mariah rose awkwardly, gripping the arms of her chair to aid herself. Her muscles had been so tight that now they ached as she stood. “If Christina had been your only victim, you could have walked away. We lost that one. But you have wakened a lot of old memories. You are a fool, Doctor! An arrogant fool.” And she marched out the door, heavy footed and angry, but also frightened. She had taken it too far. This was not how she had intended to conduct a very awkward encounter.
Peter caught up with her in the front hall, just as she walked out the doorway into the street.
“You were magnificent,” he said, taking her arm in spite of her attempt to pull away. She had made a bad misjudgment and she did not want excusing for it.
“You have made him really angry,” Peter went on as they crossed the street, startling the baker’s horse and causing the whole vehicle to swerve. “But I saw fear in his face also, just for a moment. It’s going to be dangerous. I think we had better not tell Grandmother about this, Mrs. Ellison. Or not all about it…May I call you ‘Aunt Mariah’? I feel absurd calling you ‘Mrs. Ellison’ all the time. I don’t have any actual aunts.”
Mariah was so startled by his suggestion that for a moment or two she was unable to think of anything to say. It was ridiculous to feel so very pleased. Especially when she was also frightened. She knew what Durward had done to Christina. It was idiotic to pray for the past to have been different, but silently, in her head, she prayed anyway—please God, the girl had not known what he had done to her! Let it have been that she was not conscious.
“Yes,” she said. “Of course you may call me…Aunt, if you care to.” She hurried on, in case he changed his mind. “But we must tell Rowena at least some of this. She may be able to defend herself more completely than we know.” She took a breath. “Now! We must think of any weapon we have, or can obtain, against this vile man.”
Peter tried to hide a twisted, painful smile, fighting down his fear. “Yes, Aunt Mariah.” He took her arm more firmly and guided her along the footpath, past the gaily decorated shop windows filled with toys, sweetmeats, brightly colored ornaments and cards. Then finally away from the lights and pavement and on to the road home, merely another half mile with the fading sunlight marking the way and the rising wind moving the laurel leaves, but not strong enough yet to whine in the bare trees.
Within five minutes they could see the familiar outline of home and the light on in the doorway.
Peter kept his word, and he told Rowena in general terms what had transpired at their meeting with Durward. Mariah was not present. She was certain that Rowena would prefer her not to be. She used the time to study such papers as she had found relating to Durward, mostly scribbled notes Cullen had written to remind himself of points to consider. As before, the tone of them conveyed to her that Cullen had not personally liked Durward, but also that he had believed he’d discovered a defense. There was always the possibility that Durward was not guilty of Christina’s death. No one should be condemned because they were unpleasant. Wryly, Mariah conceded that she, of all people, could not afford that!
Mariah found herself smiling as she moved from one piece of paper to another. The words brought Cullen’s memory back to her as if twenty years had disappeared. She could hear his voice again, the unique timbre of it, his choice of words, so often with a hint of humor.
She herself had been ill-tempered, perhaps even as much as Durward, if less offensive. Her son’s wife, Caroline, had put up with her. Everyone had, except on occasion one of her granddaughters. Actually she liked that one, Charlotte, the best. People are rude for many reasons, most of them rooted in some kind of unhappiness. It is not an excuse, but there was no way now of going back and undoing it.
What was Durward’s reason? Hatred of a man he knew was better than he? Fear of losing something?
What had her reason been for her own ill temper, if she was honest? There was no need to ask twice. She despised herself for allowing her husband to use her as he had. She had been legally bound to him in a society that would not tolerate rebellion. She remembered him so clearly and could see his face again in her mind. But for the first time, she recognized that behind the cruelty was fear and self-hatred, a man who needed to inflict his inner pain outward. He hated himself, and Mariah even more, because he knew that she understood all his weakness. Now she also realized how he must have hated her because she was the one he had injured, and she was the reminder of all that he had become.
Mariah leaned forward over the desk and put her head in her hands, letting the tears come at last. And then she pulled herself together as a new thought struck her. Could it be something in himself that Durward hated?
If he had first raped and then killed Christina Abbott, then he had every reason to loathe himself, to fear the thing within him that had caused it. He lived in a nightmare. If it were simply his own nightmare, then she would have pitied him. But as it was, she fully intended to use it against him, if she could just think how.
Peter knocked on the door and came into the study the moment she answered. He looked tired and very sad. He sat down in the other chair, his face pale, his hair flopping forward where he had run his hands through it.
“Grandmother is devastated.” His voice was quiet, catching a little in his throat. His hands on his knees were clenched, knuckles white. “I don’t know what else to say to her.”
He looked at Mariah, and she was aware of all the other things for which he did not wish to find words. He was disappointed, confused that the grandmother he had loved since childhood, who had sat up with him when he was ill, told him stories, cooked his favorite foods for him herself, was now so much in need of his strength and his patience.
“She’s afraid of him,” he added simply. “And I think she’s very tired of living here alone, quietly facing growing older, knowing what the people of the village think of her. Some of them have been very cruel, and now it will get worse.”
“Of course it will,” Mariah agreed. “Because she will not come out and fight against them. Fighting is not part of who she is; it never was. I could remind every one of them of all the kindnesses she has offered, and the times she has helped them and listened to their griefs, without judging them or repeating what she knew. If only she would face them.”
“She won’t.” He shook his head. “She misses Grandfather. It’s all she can think about.”
“Of course she does.” Mariah thought how much she herself had missed Cullen Wesley, even though he was no real part of her life—only of her dreams. “We shall have to fight for her.” She looked across the short distance that separated them. She could see Peter as a child, all the happiness taken from him in a single tragedy. He and Rowena had helped each other. For him, she had kept at least a fragment of her strength.
Now it was Mariah’s turn to do that.
“I have been thinking…”
H
e looked up.
“We are both quite sure that Durward is guilty, and that Rowena must have been nice to him on one occasion, which he either genuinely misunderstood or chose to act as if he did. Cullen would have known that, and perhaps chided her, more likely made a joke of it. He would know that she was innocent of anything except misjudgment.”
“Yes,” he agreed.
“So something else caused him to change his mind about defending Durward,” she continued. “Something far more serious than disliking the man. He disliked him from the start. His notes make it clear.”
Peter’s eyes widened with interest. “Why? What did he say?”
“It is not what he said, it is the words he used,” she explained. “References perhaps no one else would understand. But they are of no use, except to guide us. We must learn all we can about Durward.”
“They found him not guilty,” he reminded her.
“Humph! And do you believe that?” she asked. “Were they right?”
“I…”
“Be honest!” she pushed. “No one else has been found guilty! Why do you think your grandfather backed out of defending him?” Before he could answer, she did so herself. “He found out something that made it intolerable for him to get the man off. Maybe he couldn’t tell anyone, but he was certain.”
“Why wouldn’t he tell anyone?”
“Because he needed proof. And when he had got it, Durward killed him,” she said, as if she had no doubt.
“Aunt Mariah, I know you want to defend—” he began, his voice gentle and sad.
“Listen to me, Peter!” She made up her mind even as she was saying the words. “Yes, I do want to defend Rowena and Cullen, and you,” she agreed. “And I want to catch Durward and make sure he never does anything so terrible again, to a girl like Christina Abbott or anybody else. And yes, right at the moment I would like to see him suffer. But that isn’t the point. I…” She saw the look on his face and wondered if she really had the courage to carry this through. She had the perfect opportunity to escape. Why didn’t she just take it? It would be so much easier.
Because she had retreated all those years, for herself. Fate, or whoever was in charge of it, had given her a chance to fight back now, for someone else, perhaps someone she would never know, but if she did not take it this one time, there might never be another. She was an old woman. She was going to grasp it with both hands, even if it cut her to the bone!
She looked at him for a moment, then away again. She started to speak in a low, urgent voice.
“Whoever it was that killed Christina, he did terrible things to her first. Men who do things like that do it because they have a hunger inside them that is never fed.”
Peter drew in his breath to speak.
“Don’t interrupt me!” she ordered. “I am not speaking lightly. I’ve already told you and Rowena something of my own story, something I’ve never before told to anyone. I wish I could have lived the rest of my life without telling you, but you need to understand. Men like Durward always come back, they cannot help it. But they are never satisfied for long. Whoever killed Christina would do it again, unless he were stopped.”
This time he did not interrupt.
“I know it of Durward,” she continued. “I can see it in his eyes. And I think perhaps he knows I see it. Both of us have tasted in the air something familiar: a knowledge of pain.” At last she looked up at him. His eyes were so gentle it startled her. He was not revolted, not angry with her for her cowardice. He believed her, but did he understand?
“It is my chance to fight this time,” she told him. “I am not going to back away. I will do all I can to see that Rowena is not hurt, but he has sensed vulnerability, and he will not stop. He wishes to marry well; financially it may even be necessary for him. Whatever the reason, he is compelled to settle this now. The cost to Rowena, or to you, is immaterial to him.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, studying her face as he spoke. His voice was gentle. “I wish it hadn’t been necessary for you to relive old wounds, or to tell anyone else about them.”
“Don’t be,” she replied. “Perhaps I should have done it long ago. We must use whatever skills or understanding we have. Cullen knew something for which Durward killed him. We need to know what Cullen did, where he went, whom he spoke to in the two or three days before he died.”
“Grandmother will know.” Peter did not wait for her to argue. “I will go and ask her. I don’t think we can waste time.”
It was later in the evening, after dinner, and they were all three sitting beside the fire, curtains drawn closed, keeping out not only the darkness and chill of the night, but also the sound of the rising wind and the increasing spatter of rain. There were candles lit, rather than the gas brackets on the walls, and they gave the room a timeless, gentle light.
Rowena told them she did not know to whom Cullen had spoken regarding the case, but she said he had taken a trip on the train and returned deeply disturbed. He had said nothing to her, beyond that he must now consider exactly what he should do.
“He spent all evening in his study,” she said very quietly. “He did not eat any supper, and when I went to bed, he was still in there, with the light on over the desk.”
“And he never told you anything?” Peter pressed.
“No. There…there was little chance.” She blinked, keeping her composure only with obvious difficulty. When she continued her voice was husky. “He went out the next day, and I believe it was sometime in the afternoon that he went to see Durward and told him that he could not continue with the case.”
“He saw him in prison?” Mariah asked quickly.
Rowena shook her head. “No, it was before the trial, and since the evidence against Durward was so slight, so…circumstantial—I think that is the word—he was out on bail, confined to his house, but there was no guard to keep him there. And do not forget that he was a respected doctor, and we all thought we knew him. And, of course, he protested that he was innocent and would prove it. Many people believed him. I think they still do. We are all inclined to trust our doctor—we need to! He relied on that. Running away would have settled his guilt.”
“Could he have left the house?” Peter asked, knowing where Mariah’s thoughts were leading.
“I suppose so,” Rowena said hesitantly. “It was dark early, but not especially cold. And there was a full moon. I was out.” Her face clouded with misery at the recollection. “I went to get sticks for the fire…to light it, you know? It was a task I enjoyed. I did it most evenings. When I came home, Cullen was…was lying on the floor of his study, with the bookcase crashed beside him, and that…that wretched cannonball smeared with blood by his head.” She made a visible effort to control herself. “I never knew what he learned, or why he could not continue to represent Durward.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as if that would shut out the memories.
“The police came, of course,” she continued after a moment. “They were uncertain whether it was really an accident, but the servants had seen no one around…which of course they wouldn’t have. Not if they came in through the back way, or over from the street, unless somebody was out walking. And I could not prove I had been collecting sticks. I put them in the outhouse as I came back, with the others from previous days, to keep them dry.”
“Very natural,” Mariah said, although she had no idea. She lived in the city, and maids attended to the fires. Rowena chose to contribute to her own house; she was a countrywoman. She did her own gardening, apart from the digging, and she did it for pleasure, with a creative mind for shape and colors. She knew the names and seasons of the flowers, and what type of soil they needed, and whether to plant them in the sun or the shade.
“The train ride,” Peter prompted. “Where did he go?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“Then how long did he take?”
“He was gone most of the day. I…I really don’t know.”
“Then we will have to look at the tr
ain timetables of that year and see what was available. It looks very possible that whatever he learned, he came to know it that day.”
Mariah agreed with him. Regardless of how tedious it was, this seemed their best chance of learning whatever Cullen had discovered. Perhaps it was their only chance. Time was short. Neither of them mentioned it, but earlier they had both heard the increasingly ugly whispers in the village, some of them growing more and more open. Mariah would like to have told the gossips what she thought of them, but losing her temper now, however justifiably, would detract from the work that mattered.
Peter found a railway timetable current to Cullen’s death among the books in the study and brought it back to the sitting room. It was the first and most obvious place to look. Unfortunately, there was no mark in it, but that was not surprising. Cullen was not a man to have defaced a book for any reason.
“See where it falls open on its own,” Mariah told him. She was too eager to be diplomatic. “Try it a few times!” She was standing up beside him, sensing victory, even a small one. Rowena remained sitting, still not able to believe in victory. To her it was a phantom, a dream without hope. Her distress was clear in her eyes and the slump of her shoulders.
Peter gave Mariah a quick glance, his eyes bright. Obediently, he let the book fall open four or five times. Twice it fell at the same place.
“Where is it?” Mariah demanded.
“The local line east and west,” he replied.
“I wish we knew what time he left.” She stared at the page with its rows of times and destinations.
“Probably one of the earlier ones,” Peter replied. “But we don’t know which way he went.”
“We shall have to try both ways, if we cannot find out.” She did not intend to be put off, not by anything. She did not believe for an instant that Rowena had been responsible for Cullen’s death, and the only way to prove that was to find out who was. Everything else was Durward’s word against hers. And since so many of the villagers had been willing to blame her, they would find it difficult now to retract. Few people admitted to their maliciousness, unless forced to.