by Joan Smith
“Swimming!” Malone suggested. “The man could have been swimming and been shot when he was naked. Maybe they didn’t have the clothes when it was time to bury him, and just grabbed up the uniform as the handiest outfit in a hurry.”
Raiker considered this with interest. “Yes, but why would they also grab up those two valuable rings?” he asked. There was no answer.
After a moment, Rorie got an idea. “Did you wear the rings every day?”
“No, I had done no more than try them on. They were in my jewelry box.”
“Maybe it was to be said you had taken them with you. Family heirlooms, items of sentimental value—you might have taken them away,” Rorie said.
“I might have, but I didn’t, and that doesn’t explain why they’re buried. I can see Clare taking them and selling them and telling Papa I had taken them away. That I would believe with no trouble, but not burying them. Not without a damned good reason.”
“The best reason in the world,” Hennie advised him. “The fact that they’re buried makes us all doubt Clare was the one who had the overseeing of the burial. What they call a red herring, isn’t it?”
“That would only make sense if she thought the body would ever be dug up. Did she think so, I wonder?”
“I begin to wonder if poor Clare had a thing to do with it,” Alfred was obtuse enough to say aloud.
“Be quiet, Alfred,” his wife ordered. “If you have nothing sensible to say, keep still.” He obediently fell silent, which allowed her to proceed to the next item.
“Why were you really sent off, Kennie? You’ve been mute as an oyster on that score, and we mean to hear it, so brace yourself to tell us.”
“Leave me some privacy. It was a misunderstanding. You may be sure I was neither drunk nor beating my father, nor demanding money from him.”
“Very cool, but what the deuce was you doing that he ordered you from the house? Caught with your hands on your stepmama I warrant,” she answered herself when he remained stubbornly silent.
Raiker, pacing from fireplace to chair at the time, glanced at Aurora and frowned. She looked swiftly away, and felt herself blush. Now why should she blush because he had been caught with his father’s wife? She was angry with herself and with him, him because she believed this was the act that had caused him to be turned off.
“If my hands had been on her, it would have been in anger,” he replied fiercely, which sent Rorie wondering if he had been striking her. This, bad as it was, was more acceptable than making love to her.
“In self-defence more likely,” Hennie added. “I know what she was like with Bernard.”
“That has really nothing to do with it,” Kenelm said, turning the conversation firmly aside from his reason for leaving home. “If the corpse is Rutley—well, it must be, who else could it be?—if it is, how did he come to die? Who shot him in the back, and why? And why was he buried in my jacket and rings?”
“She killed him. No doubt in my mind,” Hennie answered at once. “And if he wasn’t her lover, it’s more than I know. You said she hadn’t any men hanging around at the time, Marnie. That’s why. She’d just murdered Rutley, and hadn’t gotten around to finding a replacement yet.”
“You said the grave was fresh when you came down to my father’s funeral, Marnie?” Kenelm asked. “And Horace Rutley had just disappeared, so it must be him. It is too much coincidence.”
Marnie frowned, trying to remember exactly. “It was newish—the hump was still visible.”
“There’s something wrong here. I remember the Jenkins girl was well along in pregnancy when I left. That I assumed was the unmarried mother whose stillborn child was supposed to have been buried there all these years.”
“Yes, it was new,” Marnie decided. “I remember Clare saying the girl was going to plant flowers. There was nothing there—just freshly turned earth. The time is exactly right for it to be Horace’s grave if he was killed, and didn’t run off at all.”
“Well, the time is about five months wrong for it to be the Jenkins baby.”
“Easily enough done,” Hennie explained. “They dug the poor bastard child up and shipped it off somewhere else. Or tied a rock around its neck and threw it into the sea. I never heard of anything so disgusting in my life,” she finished up, with the greatest relish.
“It’s downright wicked,” Malone agreed, equally thrilled.
“Shocking thing,” Alfred added, shaking his head.
“What happened to the Jenkins girl?” Kenelm asked. “We could learn from her exactly where her child was buried.”
“She left as soon as she recovered from her lying-in,” Marnie informed him sadly. “I doubt she could be traced.”
“Rutley supposedly gone to America, Joe Miller dead, Miss Jenkins gone God only knows where. How can I get ahold of any solid evidence?” Kenelm asked of the room at large.
“The corpse is solid enough,” Hennie reminded him. “What we must discover is why she killed her lover, and who buried him. I don’t suppose she did it herself.”
“The new lover would have got that job, I fancy,” Malone suggested. “But who was he? If she still has him on the string, he won’t say boo either.”
“Did Clare ever have an affair with Rutley?” Raiker asked Marnie.
“Not that I heard about. It was carried on in the greatest secrecy if she did.”
“She’d hardly broadcast it,” Hennie pointed out.
“We are assuming the corpse is Rutley. That may be leading us astray,” Raiker said, trying to make sense of the senseless.
“Pooh! Who else could it be?” Hennie demanded. “A tall, strapping fellow with black hair and goodish teeth. They don’t grow on trees, and don’t up and disappear without leaving a trace every day either. Rutley’s gone, and the body is found on his doorstep—the time of the grave just right. Got to be him. She had the little bastard child moved, just as we said, and shipped the mother out so she couldn’t be questioned.”
“I have just thought of something!” Marnie said, but when she got down to explaining, it was no very helpful memory. “She accuses Rutley of taking the emeralds. If we prove the corpse is Rutley . . .”
“Then the thief reverts to being Kenelm—or the gypsies,” Raiker pointed out.
“Or Kenelm and Rutley in league,” Rorie stated. “Actually, that is another little knot in her story, saying that, when she must know Rutley never left at all.”
“Oh, have I been in league with Rutley now?” Raiker asked with interest. “That’s a new one on me. The emeralds, though, they are another concrete item, along with the corpse. A missing item, but still useful. I didn’t take them, and Rutley didn’t take them as he’s stone cold in his box, and I’d be mighty surprised if the gypsies took them. I never heard of their being as daring as that. A chicken occasionally, but never anything as valuable as that necklace, especially from a nobleman. They’d he afraid to do it. No, she has the emeralds herself, and if we could find them on her . . . Well, I don’t know what it would prove actually, but it would prove she’s a liar and a thief at least, and that would be a step in the right direction.”
“We know she’s a liar,” Marnie assured him. “She’s had the necklace stolen by three different parties the past week.”
“I’ve got it!” Malone said, and in her excitement she came forth from behind her chair to take up a position in the centre of the floor. “I’ve been racking my poor old brain, and I think I’ve got it figured out. She stole them emeralds just like you think, Ken. But what can she do with them? Can’t wear them, and can’t sell them herself. So she gives them to Rutley to disclose of for her, and he tricks her. Comes back and says he lost them, or only gives her a bit of what they’re worth, or what have you, and she ups and shoots him in the back in a fit of revenge. I think we know how to account for the man being stark naked when he was shot too,” she added, with a sapient eye. “We know he was her lover.”
“We assume it,” Raiker parried. “Damme
, I hope that isn’t how it was. I was counting on her still having them, so that I might find them on her, and prove her a thief.”
“It still wouldn’t explain the uniform and rings,” Hennie said.
“Nor the boots and lack of underclothing,” Marnie added.
“Don’t explain nothing,” Alfred said dampingly. “Don’t explain who buried him or what happened to the Jenkins baby.”
“It explains why he’s dead anyway,” Malone maintained stubbornly. “Something must account for it.”
“We don’t even know for sure the body in the grave is Rutley,” Rorie mentioned.
For another hour the same facts were gone over again and again, and at the end of it all no unanimous conclusion was reached, except to wish to be told what Raiker was going to do about it.
“I’m going to catch her. I don’t know how, but I’m going to do it,” he said firmly. “This body doesn’t change the verdict taken yesterday morning. There is an excellent chance the body is Rutley, and with that fact proved, I can still get myself proclaimed Lord Raiker. Once I get into Raiker Hall I’ll question the servants till their teeth ache, and tear every stone apart with my bare hands if I have to, to find the emeralds.”
“She’d never leave them behind,” Marnie told him.
“The emeralds are long gone. Rutley sold them,” Malone decreed.
“It’s checkmate,” Alfred decided after some considering. “She can’t keep you from getting your inheritance. Her story is all hearsay and won’t hold up in a court of law. You can’t prove she’s lying, as she’s dragged in your dead father and a dead groom—no witnesses. And she’s had ten years to do something with the emeralds, so you’ll never lay your hands on them. You’ll get your title and estates, and she’ll get off scot free from murdering Rutley and selling the emeralds. Might be best to leave it at that.”
“The hell I will,” Kenelm said, with a rigid face and a murderous light in his eye. Then he got up and left the house abruptly, forgetting to say goodbye to anyone in his abstraction.
When Rorie lay in her bed that night, her mind was made up again in favour of the gypsy who seemed to be Kenelm. Everyone—his aunt and uncle and Marnie— accepted him. He spoke without doubt or hesitation about the past, knew everyone and everything he should. His fury at Clare’s charges against Kenelm and his father seemed too authentic to be assumed. Surely he wouldn’t be so angry if he were not Kenelm Derwent. And what the devil had he been doing with Clare that his father had turned him off into the night, and never spoken of him again? More than drinking a little too much, and using bad language. That's why Marnie had given him that strange look, the first day she saw him, when he told her she used to jaw at him for, profanity. If only she could believe that profanity was his worst crime!
* * *
Chapter 10
Lord and Lady Dougall called at the Dower House in the morning to pay their respects to the Gowerses. They brought with them their daughter Alice, who made it her business to sit with Lady Raiker and inform her she must not worry in the least about Kenelm, for he most certainly was Lord Raiker, and no impostor.
“I know it well,” Marnie told her. “You must know I was acquainted with him before he left.”
“You had met him a few times, I understand, but you did not live here. I knew him very well—an old family friend.” She smiled a confident, serene, smug smile, which did little to endear her to either sister.
“Has he finally convinced you, Miss Falkner?” Lady Alice asked. “He said you had taken the notion he was an impostor.”
“I had not met him before. There was some doubt in my mind, but my family has convinced me the man is indeed Kenelm Derwent.”
“Of course he is. Hanley remembers him vividly, and so do I if it comes to that. He didn’t recognize me at once, but he remembered that I used to ride my little cream pony and later we recalled a dozen memories that quite settled it in my mind.”
“I had the impression your mind was made up from the beginning,” Marnie remarked, not at all spitefully, but she could deliver a touch of acid with honey very well. The girl understood her.
“I hadn’t a notion who he was that first day at the party. I only knew I wanted to become better acquainted with him, for I never saw anyone so handsome and dashing.”
After a little general discussion, it was asked where Kenelm was that morning, and what he was doing to confute Clare.
“He’s gone off to find the men Horace Rutley used to chum around with, to see if any of them have heard of him,” Lady Alice answered. “He and I decided that was his best move.”
The sisters exchanged a speaking glance, saying silently that the girl clearly thought she owned him. Marnie was the real object of her various claim-stakings. She had heard about the Gypperfield mansion scheme, and feared Lady Raiker’s brother-in-law was fonder of her than was right.
The Dougall party stayed for over an hour, and before they left, Kenelm came as he had promised Lady Alice. He took up a seat beside Miss Falkner, however, and before joining in the general discussion he said to her, “Are you busy this afternoon? I hope not. I want to show off my new curricle and team to you. Sixteen miles an hour, but I won’t go above fifteen and a half if you dislike fast driving.”
“I don’t dislike it. I would like to go,” she answered, and felt guilty. Was it because Lady Alice was straining her ears on Kenelm’s other side, or was it because some little trace of doubt still hung about him? Or was it possibly that, even if he was Kenelm, he was no proper friend for her, a man who had either beaten his stepmother or made love to her?
“Good. Is half past two suitable?”
“Yes.”
“Kennie, I think we ought to be going,” Alice said, tugging his arm to get his attention. “Your schoolmates are still at the inn, and we said we would see them off, you recall.”
He waited a moment before acknowledging Alice’s words and tuggings. Rorie took the idea he did it on purpose to make Alice angry. He turned at last to Alice. “I saw them off before I came here, as it was getting late,” he told her.
“Ah, then we will go home and get into those cartons from India, and you can show me—”
“I have already made plans for this afternoon, Sal.” Alice glanced jealously to Aurora. “Miss Falkner has recklessly agreed to ride out with me and let me show off my new team.”
“Oh—Hanley said something about calling on you,” Alice said at once to Aurora. This was merely a tactic. He had said nothing of the sort, nor did Aurora believe he had. Any romance in that direction existed solely in Malone’s head.
“He didn’t mention it to me,” Rorie answered.
Kenelm’s quickened interest told Lady Alice that inciting jealousy was a poor strategy, and she let the matter drop. “You will be sorry you accepted, Miss Falkner. Kennie’s team go like the wind. Ken always has to hold me on when we ride in the curricle.”
“You see the wisdom of a fast team. Gives me an excuse to get an arm around the girls,” he said, laughing to Rorie.
While they still sat talking, a note arrived for Miss Falkner from Raiker Hall, asking if she would spare Lady Raiker a few moments at her earliest convenience. With her afternoon so pleasantly planned, she decided to dash over at once, before luncheon, and excused herself. She made no explanation to the group regarding her errand, knowing it would cause an uproar, and she wished to get it over with quickly. She was, of course, curious to hear what Clare wanted. She had her mount saddled up and rode through the meadow, keeping an eye out for gypsies, but she saw none.
She first thought Clare wanted only information. Formally estranged from the rest of the family, she wished to maintain one link, and Rorie as the least involved was the likeliest one.
“What is going on?” Clare asked. “I was in the garden doing a water colour of the roses—so lovely this time of the year—and saw the Dougalls’ carriage go down the road. Rutley is there too I believe?” She tried to sound only moderately i
nterested, but there were telltale traces of anxiety in her eyes.
“Nothing is going on. They are just visiting the Gowerses, who have come to stay with us awhile.”
“They are all against me. All want to see little Charles deprived of his inheritance, but I depend on you, Aurora, to let me know what they are up to.”
“They aren’t up to anything. Naturally they are talking about the body and all that. The oddness of the uniform and rings.”
“I explained about the uniform, and have been thinking about those rings. What a shock to see them on Kenelm’s fingers. He didn’t usually wear them, but he was leaving, you see, and would naturally have picked up anything of value belonging to him. He wouldn’t leave home forever without his jewelry. That explains it, I think, and in the haste of the burial, Joe Miller hadn’t the wits to pull them off his fingers. But in a way, I am glad, as it proves beyond a doubt that the body is indeed Kenelm’s, and not Rutley’s, as they are trying to say.”
“Funny he didn’t have a watch.”
“Oh, but the clothing was changed! The watch would have been in his jacket pocket. Very likely Joe Miller buried it, or burned it, or stole it for all we know.”
“It would be interesting if Kenelm—the man who says he is Kenelm—could produce it,” Rorie said, and looked to Clare for a reaction. There was none.
“The watch Rutley uses is not Kenelm’s. It is an odd-looking thing—from India very likely.”