A Promise Given

by Michelle Cox

  She was still asleep when he poked his head round the door, and, closing it noiselessly behind him, he carefully lay down beside her and watched her sleep. She was so achingly beautiful, and his heart almost stopped as he observed how very young she looked as she slept. Finally he reached out and brushed back a lock of her hair that had fallen across her face, and she stirred. Upon seeing him, her first reaction was to smile, which warmed him through, but she quickly stiffened, then, obviously remembering their quarrel. She sat up and pulled the sheets around her as best she could, despite him partially lying on them, and scowled.

  “Henrietta, I’m sorry,” Clive said genuinely, looking up into her blue eyes. “I’m sorry about what I said. I didn’t mean any of it. And when I took hold of you,” he paused, “I didn’t mean anything by that either. I merely meant to apologize, even at that moment.”

  She didn’t say anything but continued to stare at him with a look of nettled hurt.

  “Henrietta, you must believe me. Try to understand. It’s difficult for me sometimes to remember that I have a partner now, a wife … a friend. Give me time,” he said gently, “time to get used to sharing my life with you … all the parts of my life. I need you to help me, to be patient, to show me how to be a good husband.” He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips and kissed it.

  —

  As he did so, Henrietta looked at him and, despite herself, felt her heart go out to him. A part of her was indeed hurt, but she, too, regretted last night and had reflected that she had again gotten caught up in playing the role of the impudent child, a role she seemed to have perfected since meeting Clive, she sighed. She did feel that he had been wrong to exclude her in the way that he had, but she should never have called into question his ability as a detective. She had been wrong there, and she knew it. Not only because it wasn’t true but because she knew it was a low blow, a sensitive issue for him, and she had willingly used it against him, knowing it would sting. And here he was, asking her for her forgiveness when really it should be her asking for his.

  “No, Clive, I’m the one who should be apologizing,” she said, reaching out and running her fingers through his hair. “I said some awful things, and I’m sorry,” she said genuinely. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I know I should be more … more …”

  “Wifely?” he asked with a smile, and she couldn’t help but laugh.

  Clive’s look of strain disappeared as he lay his head down on the pillows now, still looking at her. “I missed you last night,” he said suggestively. “I didn’t realize how much I’ve already grown used to having you close to me. Especially since I’m apparently in need of a … how did you put it last night? … a pretty pet …” With mock concern, he pretended to look for said pet on the huge bed. He looked back at her then and shrugged as if giving up the search and threw himself back on the pillows. “I suppose you’ll have to do.”

  “Clive!” she exclaimed and found herself laughing again. It felt good to not be angry with him anymore. In truth, she had slept terribly. She gathered up a pillow and hit him on the head with it.

  “Minx!” he said, shocked by the force of it, and he sat up on his elbow, where he was greeted by another whack of a pillow as she laughed. He grabbed her, holding her by the arms as he forced her down, her hair spread out wildly on the remaining pillows. He bent and kissed her and thrilled when she responded in kind, running her tongue along his lips as she ran her hands down his naked back, his robe having come undone.

  “Do you mean to have your wicked way?” she asked him with a mischievous grin that caused a certain euphoria to travel through him, no sign of what he had perceived to be her fear of him last night—if it had been fear. It was clear in this moment, anyway, that she desired him, wanted him, and he knew then, as he began to make love to her, that all was well.

  Wallace was eventually released on bail later in the morning, Stevens being discreetly sent by Lord Linley to collect him, as it simply wouldn’t do for a peer of the realm to be seen at the local gaol. Clive, having spent the morning closeted with Henrietta, unfortunately did not have the opportunity of seeing or speaking with him after his arrival home, as Wallace, upon returning, had likewise locked himself in his rooms like a child, refusing to speak to anyone. Lady Linley had been beside herself as to what they would tell their guests and suggested that they say he had irresponsibly gone off to London to visit—no, help!—a friend, but Lord Linley had insisted that the truth be told, that Wallace had been held—wrongfully, to be sure—by the local constabulary overnight. He was sure the tale would eventually make its way to the ears of their guests, anyway, and he did not wish to appear as a liar. As it was, all of the guests, whether they had guessed the truth or heard it from the servants, began to make their excuses to depart earlier than scheduled in the wake of what was obviously a family crisis.

  Now devoid of extraneous persons, a pallor of sorts had come over the house, as if it were shrouded by the murdered man himself and his as-of-yet-unknown killer. Bereft of their guests, Lord and Lady Linley spent most of their time in their private rooms, as did Wallace, which left Clive and Henrietta quite alone to wander about at what should have been their leisure, but which was fraught instead with an unnamed unease.

  Clive took the opportunity to relate to Henrietta all he knew about the murder case thus far as they took a turn in the garden. Henrietta, listening intently and secretly thrilled that he was sharing the case with her, agreed that there was not much to go on, and, like Clive, she felt sure that Wallace was not the murderer but that he was obviously hiding something. Clive believed, based on what Maxwell Fielding had told her over tea in the village with Captain Russell, that it must have something to do with organizing the workers in Matlock or possibly Derby, or that perhaps he was part of a bigger socialist movement abroad and was a local leader. Nothing criminal, necessarily, but not exactly above board, either.

  Clive had telephoned Inspector Hartle since Wallace’s release, asking if any new light had been shed on the other two suspects. The inspector had begrudgingly told him that they had found Crawford in York just that morning, staying with family, who all, by the way, vouched for his whereabouts the night of the murder. That just left O’Brien, who had an alibi, albeit a fishy one, and Wallace. The only other remote possibility, of course, was that it hadn’t been someone in the pub at all. That Wallace had dropped his walking stick as he hurried along and some stranger had picked it up, attacked Jacobs as he walked along, hoping just to rob him but killing him in the process, perhaps by accident? But there were several flaws to this theory. First of all, it would be one thing for Wallace to forget his stick inside the pub, but it seemed a bit unlikely that he wouldn’t notice he had dropped it as he walked along. Second, why would a stranger randomly attack Ernest Jacobs? How would he have known he had such a large amount of money on him? Had it just been a random robbery that had proved exceptionally fruitful for the thief? It all seemed too coincidental. For his part, Clive was betting on O’Brien.

  Stopping under one of the trellises now where only a single white rose was still in bloom among the dying vines, Clive asked Henrietta if she thought it possible for them to speak once again to this Maxwell Fielding.

  “I believe he’s returned to Oxford, I think he said,” Henrietta mused, having been deep in thought. “But his brother, Rory—I think that’s his name—may be of more help anyway,” she said hopefully, wanting desperately to contribute and prove her worth to Clive. “He’s the one who’s Wallace’s supposed friend.”

  “He drinks at the Merry Bells, too, I imagine?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  Clive examined his pocket watch. “The shift won’t end for a few hours yet,” he murmured almost to himself. “Plenty of time to check out these trails of Wallace’s,” he said, holding his arm out to Henrietta. “We should probably have done this before now. Shall we?”

  Henrietta wrapped her arm through his and could not contain her smile as she leaned into h
im and they began to walk across the wet grounds. He was inviting her to accompany him, to help him, and she felt her heart thrill.

  It took longer than they had expected to reach the paths beaten down through the woods, as they had been on horseback the first time they had come upon them. It had rained this morning, and the ground was very soggy and the air still damp and cold, so much so that they could see their breath, the moisture heavy in the air. The sky was a slate gray, and a wind had picked up. Henrietta wished as they tramped along that she had worn a warmer coat. Clive paused when they came upon the place she now recognized as the fairy bower, though it was nearly bare now of any vegetation, and the sound of the cold brook gurgling beside them, full after the rain, made her shiver further. Standing among the dead bracken, Clive wrapped his warm arms around her and kissed her on the forehead. “We’ve missed our chance, I’m afraid,” he said wistfully.

  She looked up at him and did not think she could love him more than she did right now. He seemed to sense it and kissed her tenderly on the lips. She rested her head against his chest, then, and breathed in his smell—a deep manly scent of tobacco and linen—still unmistakable even through the soft tweed he wore now. She relaxed against him as she took in the scene around them. Though the branches were stark above them, with a thick, sodden blanket of reds and golds underfoot, Henrietta doubted they would see anything half as beautiful on their upcoming trip to Europe.

  “We’ll just have to come back,” she said into Clive’s chest. “Promise me,” she said as she looked up at him. “Promise me that we’ll come back to this spot and that you’ll make love to me right here in the open.”

  Clive looked at her with an arched eyebrow, his mouth twitching. “That’s a promise easily given,” he said, kissing her again softly. “But,” he said, after holding her close for a few more moments, “we musn’t tarry, my love. The game’s afoot!” he said, stepping back and taking her hand, and she stifled a little laugh at his joke, forgetting for a moment that they were investigating a serious case and that a murderer was still at large.

  Wallace’s path through the woods led them through a meadow, which soaked their legs completely as they waded through the wet grass until the path finally opened up onto the road itself, which, Clive deduced, must be about halfway between Cromford and Matlock. Having come to what was apparently a dead end, they paused to rest while they contemplated what to do next. Henrietta sat on a rather large rock covered in moss by the side of the road, while Clive leaned against the stone fence running alongside it, methodically digging in his pocket for his pipe as he tried to think. This did indeed seem to be very much a blind alley. Why on earth would Wallace trudge all the way through the woods simply to reach the lane that he could quite easily access with one of the cars from the garage, and with a bum leg to boot? It didn’t make sense and furthered the air of mystery surrounding Wallace’s movements. What did he do once he reached the lane? Clive wondered as he puffed deeply, searching the vicinity with his eyes. If he wished to have some secret rendezvous in the village, this would not be the fastest way to it.

  “Any ideas?” he called across to Henrietta, who seemed to be gazing vacantly at the sheep in the adjoining pasture. A few weak rays of sunshine had broken through the cloud cover and illuminated Henrietta as she sat, causing Clive’s heart to positively ache for her.

  Henrietta looked over at him and shook her head, her disappointment obvious. Her gaze went beyond him now, though, down the road a bit, and suddenly she sat up stiffly, focused on something that had caught her eye. So intently was she staring that Clive turned to look as well.

  “What is it, darling?” he asked, unsettled, but not seeing anything out of the ordinary.

  Henrietta stood up and marched down the road a bit to what looked like a scrub pine bush off to the side. Clive followed her, intrigued, and watched as she pulled at several of the pine branches to reveal an old motorbike, painted a dull gray, complete with sidecar, an obvious remnant of the war.

  “I saw the sun flash off the chrome,” Henrietta explained, “or I probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

  “My God,” said Clive. “Well done, Henrietta!” he said, looking at her appreciatively, to which she could not help but smile. “Obviously this must be why Wallace tramps down here. This must be his. But why not keep it in the garage up at the house? And where does he go with it?” he asked himself, looking up and down the road.

  “My guess is Matlock,” Henrietta suggested. “If he went regularly to Cromford in this thing, he’d be seen for sure. And he obviously wants secrecy, hence he hides this thing down here.”

  “Yes, I agree,” Clive answered. “All the more reason to find this Rory Fielding, I think. Perhaps he can shed some light on Wallace’s activities in Matlock.” He looked down at his drenched, shivering wife. “Come, my dear, let’s get out of this cold,” he said, taking her small hand in his. He was surprised by how chilled it felt. “What? No gloves?” he asked as he raised their intertwined fingers to his lips to kiss them. “Whatever would Mother say?” he asked, a wry grin on his face.

  “Cheeky,” she answered, clearly suppressing a smile.

  The village was not far at this point, and they soon came upon the Horse and Coach, sitting, as it did, on the lonely road just before it forked into the village proper. After hesitating a few minutes, they decided to go in rather than continue on to the village, where Clive had planned to telephone the house for a car to come fetch them. Henrietta had begged to stop here instead, however, wanting to see what a real English pub looked like so that she could tell Elsie. Clive complied, thinking that it might be nice to sit before the pub’s fireplace and drink an ale with his lovely wife. It would also be a good chance to conduct his own little investigation with the innkeeper. He had resisted the temptation before now, not wanting to step on the inspector’s toes, but as chance had put him here, he saw no harm in asking a few questions.

  Henrietta sat waiting for him at a small table by the fire, looking around curiously and resisting the temptation to put her feet on the fender. The pub was dim and smoky, inhabited at the moment by what looked like local farmers, sitting in little groups talking quietly. Everything seemed muted here, and Henrietta could not help but compare it to the loud dance halls in Chicago or the noisy taverns. A quiet, cozy hush enveloped this place, and Henrietta held her hands up contentedly to the fire even as she heard the rain pelting the windows outside. But for her damp feet, she wished they could stay here all day.

  Clive appeared, then, and handed her a small glass of lager, he called it, and sat down heavily across from her with his own large glass, though his looked much darker. “He isn’t offering much more than we already know,” he said in his own muted tone as he leaned toward her, referring of course to his conversation with the inn-keeper. “Confirmed that Crawford and O’Brien left around the same time as the dead man. Says that Wallace did, too, though.” Clive took a long pull of his beer. “Something’s not right here. I can feel it.”

  The innkeeper approached them now, carrying two heaping plates of steak-and-ale pie and chips, which he put down roughly in front of them. “There ya are,” he said plainly. Henrietta felt her mouth water and the sight of the steaming meat pie in front of her. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.

  “Hope you don’t mind that I ordered for us,” Clive said with a wry grin. “Thought we could use some food.”

  “That and you were hoping for him to give you more information, I presume,” Henrietta said as she tasted a bite and nearly groaned with the pleasure of it. “But, yes, I’m famished.”

  “Darling, you surprise me at every turn,” Clive said, taking a bite himself. “Very astute.”

  They were silent for a few minutes while they eagerly ate, Henrietta swearing she had never had something this delicious in her life, to which Clive responded that her high opinion was probably due to the fact that she was cold and wet.

  “There’s another odd thing,” Clive said, pausing
to eat a chip from the end of his fork. Henrietta thought it delightful to see him eating something so common. “The innkeeper confirms that Wallace rarely drinks here, which is not what our friend Compton says, as we’ve already been informed.”