by Jane Steen
I raised my head and wiped quickly at my face as I heard movement outside the door. When Ned entered, I felt a small surge of relief. Here was somebody I could consult.
“Ned, I need to—what’s wrong?”
Most incongruously, my brother-in-law was wearing his mayoral robe of fur-trimmed scarlet, his heavy chain of office glinting against his starched lace jabot. He clutched his tricorne hat in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. His face was almost as gray as the tips of his whiskers.
I stared for a moment and then realized I’d been so preoccupied with the problem of Dene Farm that I’d forgotten why there was a problem. Of course—Ned must be terribly cut up about Hatherall’s suicide. And Gerry had said he wasn’t well.
“Oh dear.” I jumped up and grabbed Ned by the arm, leading him toward an armchair. “Ned, darling, please sit down. You needn’t worry about me; I’m quite all right. This is all too much for you.”
“This? This?” Ned looked confused, and a qualm assailed me. Was he more ill than I’d thought?
“The whole business with Farmer Hatherall. The poor man—what despair he must have been in. Fortier gave me a perfectly reasonable explanation—several, actually—but I can’t help feeling he knew who fathered Susan’s child.”
Fortier’s horrible theory of incest rose in my mind again. I dismissed it firmly and continued, sticking to my own, far more likely version of events. “But unless Susan tells, and I don’t see how we can force her, that secret’s died with him.”
“That’s just the point.” Ned coughed to clear his throat and stuck a finger inside his stock, easing the fit of the cloth around his neck. “It hasn’t died with him.” He waved the paper he was holding in front of my eyes. “I slept like a stone last night—I suppose Gerry told you I’ve been a bit under the weather. I was late for an important function this morning, so I grabbed my letters as I left and took them with me. Just as well, really, that I opened this in the retiring room and not in front of your sister.”
“Who’s it from?” I felt only a mild curiosity.
“Hatherall.” Ned grunted, spreading the letter out with his fingers. “He calls it a confession.”
“A confession?”
“I’ll read it to you in a moment, but first I’d better tell you the gist. You won’t like it.”
“I’ll like it even less if you spin out the suspense. Spit it out.”
“In short, he names Justin as the father of his daughter’s child.”
I sat frozen for a few moments while I felt the blood rush to my face in a tide of red. Finally, I spoke.
“No. That’s not possible.”
“The confession of a dying man, he says. One who will no longer damn his eternal soul by withholding the truth.” One corner of Ned’s mouth twitched up. “Although, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, he’s damned his soul rather more effectively by committing felo de se.”
I opened my mouth to mention Fortier’s theory that Susan’s father was her child’s father and then shut it again. Two words might be enough to raise a suspicion in Fortier’s mind, but they weren’t proof of anything. Until that proof was established, it would be entirely wrong of me to defend Justin by making an even worse accusation.
“It’s not possible.” I fell back on my previous words. “It’s not true. I don’t know what game Hatherall was playing, but that’s a complete untruth.”
“We could always ask Susan,” Ned said. “How is she, by the way?”
“A little better. And no, I’m not going to harangue her about something I know to be untrue. The poor child’s going to awaken to the knowledge that her father has died in the worst way possible—that any inheritance she might have hoped for is gone—no, I’m not going to ask her. If the truth was so bad that she and her father have both lied to shield whoever it was, then perhaps it had best lie dormant.”
I got up and walked halfway across the room, then realized I had to lean on the back of an armchair because my legs were shaking.
“My dear.” Ned’s voice was very gentle, very kind. “All men might succumb to a moment of weakness. It doesn’t mean Justin loved you any the less.”
“NO!” The word emerged as a strangled shout. “There isn’t a word of truth in it, Ned. Not a word. I will swear to that on oath. I know—knew—my husband, and I can tell you categorically he didn’t father Susan’s child.”
A cough behind us made me whirl around. I saw Fortier standing in the doorway.
“Forgive me, Lady Helena,” he said, bowing slightly. “I plead urgent business for my abrupt entrance, but I believe I may have been overtaken by events. I—well, I overheard a few seconds of your conversation.” He looked at Ned. “I think you need to give Lady Helena the benefit of the doubt.”
I felt myself flush again, to the roots of my hair. “You may as well know the rest, then. Mr. Hatherall sent Sir Edward what he called a confession. Containing a lie that Justin—” I choked on my words. I felt Ned’s arm around my waist, reassuring.
“Steady on, old thing. If you say it’s not true, it’s not true. But it’s dashed odd. What did the man hope to achieve?”
“Scandal.” Fortier drew in his breath suddenly as if a thought had occurred to him. As I turned, I saw a look pass between him and Ned.
“I can’t suppress it,” Ned said.
“I know.” Fortier sounded almost miserable.
“Suppress what?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, Helena.” Ned folded the letter and put it into the pocket of his robes, forgetting his promise to read it to me. “This letter will have to be read out at the inquest.”
“No.” If I had flushed before, I was sure I was pale now. I felt as if all the blood had vanished from my body.
“Is there no doubt at all the letter is from Hatherall?” Fortier asked.
“It was handed to my housekeeper in person by Hatherall’s servant yesterday evening. I’m sure I can get her to confirm his handwriting.” Ned ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Gerry put it with some other letters I’d received while I was out, but by the time I got home last night I felt unwell. I didn’t put up any resistance to my wife’s insistence that I go straight to bed. It pains me to think I might have had time to prevent him carrying out his terrible plan.”
“You wouldn’t have,” I said. “Monsieur Fortier and I saw Ruby leaving Dene Farm last night. From the timing, I imagine Farmer Hatherall hanged himself almost the second she’d shut the door.”
“It was a very determined attempt.” Fortier nodded his agreement. “Most suicides dither—if they cut their wrists, for example, you will see several smaller cuts have been made before the successful one. People intending to throw themselves from bridges or jump from high places often hesitate so long that they’re noticed by someone. The mind revolts at the enormity of ending one’s own life.”
“He must have had the rope handy,” I said, remembering the still, heavy body. “How long does it—take?”
“Five minutes at the most.” Fortier looked sideways at me. “Probably a lot less. He must have planned the thing carefully—measured the drop, cut the rope to length, tied the noose with care so that it wouldn’t slip. And then he spoke quite naturally with Ruby. She told me he’d joked with her about her eagerness to spend some time with her sister and held forth on the qualities of her raspberry jam. It was my conversation with her that sent me here in such a hurry—well, to the town hall first, but they told me the mayor had already left.”
“In full fancy dress.” Ned looked down at his costume ruefully. “I thought I’d better speak to you, Helena, before I spoke to anyone else. But now I’ll have to submit this to the coroner without delay. I’m sorry, my dear. I really must go. Would you like me to send Gerry to you?”
Ignoring the fact that the floor seemed to be swaying very slightly under my feet, I went to my brother-in-law and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be all right. I’m going to ask Monsieur Fortier to look at Susan Hatherall befor
e he leaves.” Then a thought struck me, and the swaying feeling intensified. “They won’t interrogate her again, will they? About the baby? After all we did to make Mrs. Bearcroft leave her alone?”
“You can’t rule out that she may be called as a witness,” said Fortier. “There may now be only two people left on this earth who know the identity of her baby’s father—the man himself and Susan. I don’t know if such an inquiry would be deemed relevant to the inquest or whether they will simply dismiss Hatherall’s letter as the ravings of a madman. After all, since he committed suicide there will be a presumption of insanity.”
“He must have been insane,” I said. “Because Justin had nothing to do with Susan Hatherall’s child.”
To my surprise, Ned enveloped me in a brief hug, the fur lapels of his mayor’s robe tickling my cheek. “You’re a brave little woman.”
I didn’t feel so brave once Ned had left. I turned to face Fortier.
“I’m not sure if he believes me.”
“From his point of view, you said what any staunchly faithful wife would say. This is a damnable mess, Lady Helena. If Hatherall was trying to protect someone, he’s been fiendishly clever about it. He accuses a dead man with a dying confession—which is almost certainly inadmissible as evidence in the general way of things, but the coroner won’t ignore it. It will be read and discussed, and Sir Justin’s good name will be stained—and this time there is no possibility of the accusation being retracted.”
I bit my lip. “Are you going to say anything about the possibility of—of what you said? Drag Susan into that accusation? Supposing her father forced her, Fortier? After all, whatever it is, the secret must be a terrible one for Hatherall to go to such lengths. He was a churchwarden, for heaven’s sake. A religious man. He must have seen suicide as one of the worst possible sins he could commit, yet he did the deed as coolly and efficiently as if he were putting a sick sheep out of its misery. He left his youngest child destitute—and I’ve no doubt at all that Maggie will be besmirched by this. You know how people talk. All this tragedy and disgrace—and for what?”
“There’s something very rotten at the heart of all this,” said Fortier. “I’m more convinced than ever Sir Justin’s death is connected to something he knew or discovered.” Seeing my face, he added, “I’m sorry, Lady Helena. I know you don’t believe me—don’t want to believe me—but I must speak what’s in my mind.”
I looked hard at Fortier for a few moments, the implications of his words blossoming in my thoughts.
“Wait,” I said. “Connected—are you now implying the Hatheralls had something to do with Justin’s death? This is getting worse and worse.”
“Lucius Hatherall at least.” Fortier looked grave. “Think about it, Lady Helena. We have only his word that he found Justin drowned in the river and jumped in to see if he were really dead.”
I put my hand to my mouth. “If he had pushed Justin into the water—held him under—he would be soaking wet. The story about jumping straight into the river when he saw Justin by the willow would be necessary to provide an explanation for the state of his clothing.”
“Exactly. I’ve always thought it strange Hatherall didn’t at least remove his jacket before jumping in.”
I frowned. “Well, seen in the light of a devoted tenant desperate to save his employer, I suppose such an impulsive act would be understandable. You’ll have to forgive me, Monsieur Fortier, but it’s hard for me to see this particular question from a man’s point of view. We women are so tightly laced and buttoned into our clothes that if I saw a drowning child, for example, I might well jump in without taking several minutes to unbutton my boots.”
“And drown as well.” There was the faintest twinkle in Fortier’s eyes. “But you would at least shed any outer clothing—a cape, manteau, paletot, or any of the other ingenious variations on what in a man is simply a coat?”
“A heavy piece of clothing, yes. Most garments designed purely to add a layer of warmth when outdoors are comparatively easy to take off.”
“A man’s jacket is easily removed. Hatherall would only have to undo some buttons and slip his arms out of the sleeves.”
“And yet you didn’t raise this point before?”
“I did ask the question at the inquest, but as you said, the picture was that of one man devoted to another, and Hatherall’s account of his actions was extremely convincing. This suicide paints everything in a very different light. It reveals Hatherall to be a master dissembler. Just think—knowing he intended to kill himself directly, he was yet able to talk naturally to his servant and never give her any qualm that something was wrong.”
“And one of his last acts was to assassinate the character of the man to whom we all assumed he was devoted.” I drew in a sudden breath.
“What?” Fortier’s eyes were alert.
“I’ve just remembered something Ned said yesterday. Good heavens, was it only yesterday? When he came to see me after talking with Hatherall. He talked about him having a hidden life; said he avoided Ned’s questions with the skill of a politician. And yet all Ned was trying to do was comfort him about Susan’s baby, make him see that disgrace doesn’t last forever. Ned quoted Shakespeare; that a man could smile and smile and be a villain.”
“The mayor’s a clever man.” Fortier smiled, and I couldn’t help smiling in response. In talking, we had somehow drifted toward the morning room’s large window and seated ourselves at opposite ends of its long, broad window seat with Scotty between us. The sharp, frosty night had given way to a damp, cloudy morning. The hills that marked where the land rose to cliffs towering above the unseen sea were a deep blue-purple, brushed on their summits by feathery fingers of cloud. A dark bank of oncoming rain lowered almost to the sea, leaving just a narrow strip where the light broke through.
I looked away from the view and down at my hands. There was a discussion I was going to have to have with Fortier, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. There were things no lady should ever have to discuss with a man who wasn’t her husband. Even between Justin and me, such matters were rarely subjected to the brutality of words. But as it happened, Fortier spared me the pain of broaching the subject.
“Hatherall made one big mistake, didn’t he? Perhaps he did indeed silence Sir Justin for the sake of whatever secret he and Susan were—are—hiding. And then he tried to kill him a second time, so to speak, by accusing him of wrongdoing—and again, by so doing he could protect himself and his daughter.” He lowered his voice, and his words were gently spoken. “But he made an accusation that more than one person knows to be impossible.”
We’d left the door open, naturally, for the sake of propriety. But now I rose swiftly to my feet, putting out a hand to indicate to Fortier that he should remain seated. I crossed to the door of the morning room and shut it as quietly as I knew how. Of course, my servants would know; I was surprised we hadn’t been interrupted so far. But I would not allow any eavesdropping, not for this, not even at the risk of my reputation. The window seat was too far from the door to allow any servant to listen at the keyhole.
I seated myself again, feeling rather short of breath. The morning room was spacious, but closing the door gave me a feeling of unaccustomed intimacy. I gave myself a second or two to recover my equilibrium, passing a hand over Scotty’s brindled coat before I spoke.
“Was that your professional opinion? That there was no hope?”
Fortier’s remarkable green-gold eyes were fixed on mine, his expression sympathetic. “Very little. There are no true remedies for impotence. Only the quacks claim to be able to restore manhood to those unable to, well, to please their wives.”
“Justin was able to please me,” I said quickly. Now that I was forced to talk about this matter, I was determined to be frank. It was ridiculous to act like a blushing bride. I didn’t want anyone, let alone Fortier, to see Justin as any less than a full man. “He was as . . . as attentive, and, ah . . . accomplished as I could wish. There are more th
ings in life than . . . that, as I’m sure you know.”
Good grief, I was blushing. Fortier cleared his throat.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Helena. That was most unfortunate phrasing. He did tell me your marriage was consummated.”
“Yes. The, ah, problem wasn’t so bad at first.”
Silence fell between us for a few moments as we both contemplated the failure of an essential part of my marriage. But it hadn’t been a failure in any way that mattered. We had known great joy in our marriage bed, Justin and I.
“Does anybody else know?” Fortier asked at last.
“Nobody.”
Unless the servants knew, of course. Servants always knew more than you hoped they would, and one could only pray they wouldn’t gossip. But I had told nobody in my family.
“They all supposed it was my fault,” I said, knowing Fortier would understand what I meant.
“And you never spoke up to defend yourself against the assumption you were barren.”
“Of course I didn’t.” A small spark of anger was flaring inside me—at what, I didn’t know. At Fortier, perhaps, for knowing more about the most secret part of my life than I would want him to, physician or no. “I would do anything to protect Justin from scorn.”
“You may have to speak up now.” Fortier was looking at his boots.
“Speak up?” Then I realized what he meant, and now the heat that spread up my neck to my cheeks had more to do with fury than embarrassment.
“Nobody would ask me to speak on this matter. Nobody. How can you even think of such a thing?”
Fortier looked outwardly unmoved, but two spots of color appeared on his tanned cheeks. He leaned forward and jabbed a finger into the palm of the other hand.
“That letter of Hatherall’s will be read at the inquest, if only to support a verdict of insanity. It may be possible to avoid having it read publicly, but it will be read. And I don’t see how I can be involved in this and not come forward to testify that what Hatherall says cannot be true.”