by Stella Riley
‘What?’ gasped Alice. ‘Sam - are you being flippant?’
‘I wish I was. We slipped out to the Castle this afternoon so that Abby could see her precious wedding dress in its hour of glory and —’
‘You did what? Oh Sam!’
‘Yes, I know. But Abby wanted to go and I didn’t think it would do any harm. It never occurred to me that she’d come back cupshot.’ He opened the door of Abigail’s bedchamber and stood back to let Alice pass. ‘See for yourself. If it wasn’t for Jonas, it would be funny.’
Alice sat on the bed.
‘Abby? Come along, dear. Wake up.’ She slapped one pale cheek quite lightly and then, when there was no reaction, repeated the action a little harder. ‘Abigail!’
‘She said she only had one glass,’ remarked Samuel judicially. ‘But it doesn’t look like it, does it?’
‘Help me sit her up,’ snapped Alice. ‘I don’t like the way she’s breathing. Abby, wake up. Open your eyes!’
Slowly, very slowly Abigail fought back the tides of unconsciousness. Her lashes were leaden weights which had to be forced apart and her body no longer belonged to her but she obeyed the summons as best she could and looked out upon the blurred face of her mother.
‘Oh God!’ Alice’s hands crept up to her mouth.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Samuel. ‘Mother – what is it?’
‘Get her up.’ Alice was already pulling Abigail from the bed. ‘Come on, Sam – help me. Get her up and make her walk. Do anything you like so long as you keep her awake.’
‘But why? It’s only the wine, isn’t it?’
Alice was half-way to the door but she swung round, her face ashen with fear.
‘No. It isn’t just wine. It’s belladonna. And if we don’t bestir ourselves, she’ll die.’
*
On the following morning, Captain Ambrose had barely returned from a dawn patrol when Samuel found him in the outer courtyard of the Castle.
‘I’ve got to talk to you,’ said Sam tersely. ‘It’s urgent. Where can we be private?’
Justin glanced searchingly at him and then nodded.
‘In there.’ He led the way cross to the ruined mansion house. ‘No one comes here any more.’
‘You’re quite sure we can’t be overheard?’
‘Yes. Sam – what’s this about?’
‘Abby – and I have to make it quick,’ replied Samuel, in the same flat tone. ‘I’m needed at home. But I couldn’t leave it any longer. Not now. Abby nearly died last night. Mother says she was given belladonna.’
‘What?’ snapped Justin, jolted out of any semblance of composure. ‘Nightshade? You’re sure?’
Samuel nodded wearily.
‘Yes. We think – we hope – the worst of the danger is past but she’s still very ill. We kept her awake. All night long. I dragged her round and round the room, slapping and shaking her. It was horrible. Mother made her drink egg white and then she changed it to salt water so that – so that …’
‘So that Abby was sick. Yes.’ The grim face relaxed a little. ‘Your mother is plainly a very wise woman. Most people wouldn’t know what to do.’
‘I certainly didn’t,’ confessed Samuel. ‘But I doubt any of us can stand another night like that and it was made all the worse by having to hide it from Jonas.’ He paused and drew a long breath. ‘But I didn’t come here just to tell you that. There’s something else.’
‘Ah. Your theory, perhaps, on how Abby came to drink nightshade?’
‘Yes.’ Samuel set his jaw. ‘It was Anne Rhodes. I know it just as surely as I know she murdered Tom Mayhew. And though I can’t prove she did it, I can prove why she’d try.’
There was a long stunned silence. Justin remembered returning from his gut-wrenching interview with Tom’s father to find Abby sitting beside Mistress Rhodes with a glass of wine in her hand. Wine she’d drunk while he was talking to her.
He said distantly, ‘Go on. I’m listening.’
‘She’s a spy. She’s employed by Sir Samuel Luke and she’s been sending him monthly reports all the time she’s been here. Tom found out – and so did Abby.’
‘And how,’ asked the Captain, ‘do you know all this?’
‘Because I’ve been delivering her letters to the carrier.’
The grey eyes remained coldly enigmatic.
‘I see. You are a busy child, aren’t you?’
Samuel flushed. ‘I know what you’re thinking and —’
‘I doubt it.’
‘ – and I don’t blame you. But —’
‘That’s kind of you.’
‘Will you listen?’ demanded Samuel. ‘I’m not going to waste time justifying myself to you. It’s bad enough that I’m here at all. If you need chapter and verse from me, I’ll give it to you on another occasion. For now, what I came to say is this. If you can make Anne Rhodes confess to murdering Tom and trying to kill Abby, I’ll give you proof that she’s a spy.’
‘Proof? You mean you’ll testify against her?’
‘If it’s necessary. But I can do better than that,’ replied Samuel, rigid with strain. ‘You see, I still have her last despatch.’
It was a long time before Justin spoke and, when he did, his words were unexpected. He said, ‘You obviously care a great deal about Abby.’
‘Of course. Can you do what I ask?’
‘Oh yes.’ The lean mouth curled in a chilly, impersonal smile. ‘In fact, it will be my pleasure.’
*
Within minutes of Samuel’s departure, Captain Ambrose stood outside Mistress Rhodes’ door. It was slightly ajar. He entered without knocking and then, closing it behind him, slid the bolt home.
Startled, Anne looked up from the array of powders and potions that littered her table and came hurriedly to her feet.
‘How dare you walk in here like this? Get out!’
Justin folded his arms and leaned against the door, his gaze resting meditatively on the bottles and jars. Then he said gently, ‘Which one of those contains the belladonna?’
She sensed dangerous temper beneath his apparent calm and asked warily, ‘What makes you suppose that I have any?’
‘It’s not supposition. I know you have it. And I was wondering who you’d use it on next.’ He strolled across the room and began lightly touching the small jars. ‘Is it this? Or this? Abby Radford is still alive, you know. You should have chosen something less easily identifiable.’
Her eyes had narrowed slightly but she shrugged and said carelessly, ‘I have no idea what you are talking about – and can only assume that you’re drunk. Again. I’d like you to leave.’
‘Yes. I daresay you would. But I’m going nowhere yet – and neither are you. We’re going to have a little chat, you and I.’
‘I have nothing to say to you.’
‘You may think that now – but you’ll have plenty to say before I’m done with you. Ah no!’ His hand shot out, imprisoning her arm as she attempted to slap him. ‘That really isn’t a good start.’
‘Let me go!’ She twisted in his hold and brought her free hand up to his face, the nails poised to rip and tear.
Justin felled it using the hard edge of his palm in a downward, chopping movement that drew a gasp of pain from her. Then, smiling, he forced her down on the stool.
‘As I said … a little chat about Abby Radford and Tom Mayhew and Sir Samuel Luke. You see, sweetheart , I know it all – or nearly all – and you are going to tell me the rest.’
She moistened her lips, her mind busy with possible courses of action. Then, recognising their futility, she said, ‘I’ll see you damned before I tell you anything. And you’ll never prove it.’
‘Oh but I will,’ he assured her calmly. ‘You really shouldn’t have poisoned Abby. Her brother is a little annoyed with you. And he still has the last letter you trusted him with.’
The shock of it set the blood coursing to her head and, for a moment, she could not speak. Then, her voice losing every vestige o
f gentility, she said, ‘That bloody little daisy. I should have seen to him.’
‘I’m sure you’d have got round to it in time. Why did you kill Tom Mayhew?’
She curbed her rage, aware of the perils of saying too much.
‘I didn’t.’
‘You did. But not, I think, with nightshade. What did you use?’
‘Nothing. And that’s all you’ll get from me.’
‘You think so?’ His fingers strayed at random through the clutter of the table until they encountered the bone handle of a small knife. ‘You are taking me for a gentleman again and it’s a mistake - particularly now. For you will talk, you know … one way or another.’ His hand closed on the knife and, turning a glacial smile on her, he added conversationally, ‘I learned a lot at Naseby.’
The blue eyes widened a little. ‘You bastard. You wouldn’t dare.’
‘No? You don’t know me very well, do you? I don’t hold women sacred. I have known others like you, you see. And I don’t make empty threats or balk at soiling my hands when the devil drives. So you will do well to believe what I say for I’ll use any means I have to, short of actually killing you. And that is for the law to do.’
She did not answer but, instead, made another sudden dive for the door. Justin seized a handful of her hair and hauled her back, screeching.
‘Don’t try that again. I’ll it pull it out next time. Now. Sit down and begin at the beginning. I want to know exactly who you are and who sent you – everything.’
Mistress Rhodes spat hard and accurately into his face.
For one second, perhaps two Justin continued to regard her out of chilly, purposeful eyes. Then, without warning, he brought the back of his hand percussively up across her cheek.
‘And that,’ he announced impersonally, as she collapsed against the table, sobbing for breath, ‘concludes the pleasantries for both sides. Act One, Scene Two – the same question. I suggest you answer.’
He waited and then, when she merely uttered a brief insult in the lowest form of gutter vernacular, he pulled her to her feet and, in a single, lithe movement, twisted her right arm high against her spine and laid the knife flat along one flawless cheek.
‘Stop!’ she moaned, her head forced back against his shoulder. ‘You’re breaking my arm.’
‘No. You’d be surprised how much more it can hurt before I do that. Now - let’s start with your name.’
‘You know it. Anne Rhodes.’
His grip tightened a little. ‘Sure?’
‘Yes – no. It’s Hannah. Hannah Rhodes. Don’t!’
‘Then answer truthfully. How did you poison Tom?’
‘I didn’t.’
Again, he increased the pressure. ‘How?’
‘I – I – water-hemlock. Let me go. I’ll tell you —’
‘And Abby? Belladonna in her wine yesterday afternoon?’
‘Yes. Please stop. I think I’m going to faint.’
‘Don’t do that. The knife might slip. Tell me about your dealings with Samuel Luke.’
‘I’ve never met him. I just s-send the occasional despatch.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since after Rupert relieved Newark.’
‘Only a year, then. Still, I imagine you’ve done your fair share of damage in that time. What information have you supplied since you’ve been here?’
‘Not much. Just numbers and – and the state of the Castle defences.’
Justin shook his head and the knife blade shifted fractionally, scraping her cheek.
‘I don’t believe you – but we’ll let that pass for a moment. When did you first involve Sam Radford?’
‘February. When he brought the girl here to see you. For God’s sake,’ she moaned, ‘you’re crippling me. Let me go.’
‘Not yet. If you didn’t have Sam’s help until after the debacle at Compton Wynyates, how did you warn them we were coming? And don’t tell me you didn’t. They were expecting us and there’s only one way that could have happened. So – how?’
‘One of … one of the exchanged prisoners.’
‘How enterprising of you. I’m impressed.’ He remained perfectly still for a moment and then said flatly, ‘And now you can tell me where you gathered the exquisitely garbled version of my past history that you supplied to Mercurius Britannicus.’
And that was when Anne Rhodes realised the full extent of her peril.
‘I didn’t. I had nothing to do with that. Nothing!’
Sudden, breathless silence. Justin brought his grip to the brink of bone-splitting agony and watched, unmoved, as tears of pain and rage rolled down her face.
‘Don’t lie. And don’t think you can stop now. It’s just getting interesting. You did send it, didn’t you? Didn’t you?’
‘Yes – yes! And I’m glad. I only wish I’d done as Bernard said and —’ She broke off, aghast, and felt the tremor of shock that ran through the still body behind her.
‘Bernard?’ repeated Justin in an odd voice. ‘Bernard French?’
Inexplicably, her conviction that he wouldn’t use the knife evaporated and she was suddenly very frightened indeed.
‘Yes. It was all him. He wants you dead.’
‘That is no surprise. So he sent you. Why? Why you?’
‘He – we are betrothed. He works for Sir Samuel too and he said I could kill two birds with one stone. He said he’d thought you already dead till he heard John Fiennes mention your name; and then he told me that getting rid of you would do everyone a favour – especially him and me.’
‘I see.’ The crisp voice grew even more remote. ‘And did he explain why?’
‘No. But as soon as I saw you, I guessed’
‘Guessed what?’ And then, as she hesitated, ‘My next move will shatter your arm. What did you guess?’
‘That you’re the missing heir. Bernard’s step-brother. And that, if you ever were plain Justin Ambrose, you’re not any more. You’re the eighth Baron Templeton of Trent.’
He released her so unexpectedly that she almost fell. Her arm and shoulder were a burning torment and her cheek was bleeding a little where the knife had scratched it but the look on his face outweighed both. He said, ‘An empty title? Yes. The only thing Bernard could never have - and the only thing the seventh baron couldn’t keep from me. Although he tried. God knows he tried. And he made sure I’d never have the house or land by disinheriting me years ago.’
‘I know that. But he changed his mind. Why do you think Bernard needs you dead? He can’t inherit while you live.’
There was a white shade about Justin’s mouth. He laughed oddly and said, ‘Well, well. So they lost after all.’ Then, his gaze focusing again on Mistress Rhodes, ‘And is that why you were so determined to find a way into my bed?’
‘Why else? Did you flatter yourself that I was consumed with lust for your body? No. I thought —’
‘You thought I might prove a better proposition than Bernard. Quite. But, having discovered your mistake, why didn’t you kill me while you had the chance when I was ill?’ He stopped and then said, ‘Of course. You couldn’t. It would have been too obvious.’
‘Not if rhubarb had been in season,’ she muttered viciously. And, with a brief, jarring laugh, ‘But you gave me a new interest. You began to talk. So Mercurius Britannicus got it all wrong, did they? Yet you gave it to me yourself under the influence of opium.’
Had he? He didn’t know. He didn’t know what he’d said during those drug-induced hours. Only that what had been printed for the world to read wasn’t what had really happened – only an approximation of what Bernard French and his sister had said had happened. And which his father had believed.
Nothing in the pale, chiselled face showed how very close she was to death by strangulation. Yet the temptation swelled up and up in Justin’s mind like a tidal wave, drowning every thought save one; that, if she lived to come to trial, his ten-year-old cloak of anonymity would be wrenched from him and he would be back in the dest
ructive vortex of endless, prying speculation Just two minutes, he told himself; and with Sam’s evidence, who would know it for personal vengeance?
Sam’s evidence …
The wave receded slightly, admitting logic. Sam had asked for proof that Anne – Hannah – was a murderess. What he had just heard might not, in itself, be enough. Only a written confession would be certain to satisfy Sam’s complicated sense of honour so that he would give up the letter. And that letter was too important to be thrown away as the price of his own peace of mind.
Writing materials lay amongst the deadly harvest of the table and he pushed them towards her, saying, ‘Sit down. You are going to write your confession. Three lines should do it. You are in Parliamentary pay; you alerted the garrison of Compton Wynyates to our intentions; you killed Tom Mayhew and attempted to kill Abigail Radford. Then sign it.’
She stared at him, her eyes filled with the ugliness of sheer hate.
‘I won’t. Why should I?’
‘To prevent me having the inestimable pleasure of spoiling your lovely, lying face,’ returned Justin deliberately. He came closer, the knife gleaming cold in his fingers. ‘Write.’
Hannah Rhodes allowed her gaze to fall on the paper. A confession, signed freely in the presence of witnesses would unquestionably be her death warrant – but this, if she did it, could be revoked later on the plea of duress. There were always bargains to be struck; information for Will Compton or her body for any man who’d help her escape. The future was full of chances; the present held nothing but certain disfigurement if she refused. Slowly, she picked up the pen.
*
Of the first night of her illness, Abigail remembered only the endless battle to stay awake the ever-increasing pain of incessant nausea. By dawn, she had been too weak to stand and the nerves of her stomach were so raw that a mere scent was enough to set her retching. Finally, they had let her rest – half blind in the growing light but too physically broken to care.
It was two days before she could see properly, four before she could eat anything without being sick and six before she had the strength to leave her bed. For all that time, Alice and Samuel kept Jonas at bay by maintaining the fiction of an infectious internal disorder. It was the only bright spot in Abigail’s world.