Pierce stole the money. But of course he’s the logical person to have done so; he was there, and he had the opportunity. If DeQuincey hadn’t changed his mind about collecting the ransom, no one would have been the wiser.
“Why didn’t you tell Lady Alexandra and Sir Gerald?”
“Pierce would have denied it. It would have been his word against mine, and who would believe me?” DeQuincey utters a woeful laugh. “I’ve got a police record for theft. Besides, nobody except Lady Alexandra, Sir Gerald, and Pierce was supposed to know about the ransom. If I’d admitted being in the park, Sir Gerald would have assumed it was me who kidnapped Robin and sent the note.”
I surmise that Pierce knew about DeQuincey’s secret family because he’d been the one who investigated him for Sir Gerald. “So it was Pierce who threatened your family.”
“Yeah.”
“But how did he know you were there that day?”
“I told him.”
“Why?”
“It was a chance to make up for losing out on the ransom. I went to Pierce and said I’d seen him steal the money and that unless he gave me half of it, I would tell the police.”
My mouth drops even though I already knew how rash DeQuincey is. “You blackmailed Pierce.”
“I thought I was so smart,” DeQuincey says ruefully. “At first it seemed like I had Pierce where I wanted him. He was all upset. He’s been paying me twenty pounds a week.”
Pierce must not have been confident that the police wouldn’t believe DeQuincey. Maybe he had kidnapped and murdered Robin and therefore was afraid that if the police learned that he’d taken the ransom money, such incriminating evidence would be enough to get him hanged. Maybe he thought five hundred pounds a small price to pay for DeQuincey’s silence.
“When did he threaten your family?” I say.
“After you caught me in the woods and we were back in Mariner House.” DeQuincey explains, “When Lottie said Tabitha was dead, everybody ran upstairs to see, but I couldn’t because of my leg. Pierce came and told the constable to leave us alone for a minute. Then he said that if I didn’t keep my mouth shut about him, he would kill my wife and boys.”
While Mick and I and the others were gathered around Tabitha, another drama was taking place unbeknown to us. It’s as if I’ve been looking at a photograph of Mariner House and the gruesome scene in Tabitha’s room is visible through the window, but the window of the dining room, where Pierce threatened DeQuincey, was curtained. Pierce must have realized that because DeQuincey was now on the hook for Robin’s murder, paying him blackmail would no longer suffice to buy his silence.
“I told Pierce that I would talk and he would be arrested before he could get to my family. But he said he had people ready to do it if I ratted on him,” DeQuincey says miserably. “I couldn’t take the chance that he was bluffing.” He apparently cares about his family even though he took up with another woman. “So then Pierce offered me a deal: if I would take the blame for Robin, he would support my family after I’m dead.”
“And you agreed? You trust Pierce?” I can’t believe it.
DeQuincey shrugs. “I’m not so smart, right?”
Not only did Pierce coerce DeQuincey into taking the blame for Robin’s murder, he tried to scare Hugh and me into quitting our investigation. I’m growing more certain not only that he’s Robin’s murderer but also that he poisoned Tabitha and faked her suicide. And now I see that an additional crime can possibly be laid at Pierce’s door.
“Was there anybody else in the dinosaur park with you and Pierce?” I ask.
“No,” DeQuincey says.
As I sigh in disappointment, he says, “Wait. I forgot. When Pierce was leaving, he bumped into some people. A man with a red-haired tart. They were kissing.”
Noel Vaughn and Ethel Norris. My hope revives. “What did Pierce do?”
“Beats me,” DeQuincey says. “That’s when I skedaddled.”
He didn’t see Hugh and me. He also didn’t see my father. It’s a letdown, as is the fact that although I think Pierce killed the lovers, there’s no evidence to prove it. The only possible witness to their murder is my father, who’s still missing.
“I’ve told you everything,” DeQuincey says. “Are you going to get me out of here?”
“Yes.” But I’ve no idea how to use my evidence to free him or deliver Pierce to justice.
29
Upon my return home, I hear Hugh’s voice in the parlor. I’m relieved that he’s back but afraid to face him because we parted on such bad terms. I find him reclining on the yellow silk-covered chaise longue and Mick seated on the sofa by the fire. Hugh looks clean and neatly groomed and dressed. The gaze he lifts to me is lucid and somber.
Eager to forestall another quarrel, I say, “I’m moving out.” I don’t want to go, but I’d rather leave voluntarily than have him evict me. “I’ll just fetch my baggage and be on my way.”
Hugh springs up from the chaise and grasps my shoulders. “Sarah, please don’t leave.” His eyes are filled with regret and shame. “I want to apologize for treating you so harshly. I’ve been a complete bastard. Will you forgive me?”
His heart is too kind to sustain his grudge. My heart overflows with so much love for him that tears blur my eyes. “I’m the one who should apologize to you.”
Hugh waves away the notion. “I spent last night walking for miles around the city, just thinking. By the time I lumbered home this morning, I understood what had happened—I went head over heels for Tristan Mariner, and then I blamed you for my unhappiness while you were only trying to watch out for me. I shouldn’t have said that about your father.”
His gaze softens with the affection I’ve missed so much. I’m fervently glad he’s not mad at me anymore. “But you were right about my father. And I could have been more tactful.”
“Well, it’s in the past. I’m just hoping that I haven’t lost one of the few true friends I have in the world.” Apprehension clouds Hugh’s gaze. “I haven’t lost you, have I, Sarah?”
“Of course not.” I swallow a sob. “I’ve been so afraid I’d lost you.”
As we smile at each other, Hugh holds out his arms. I awkwardly step into and return his embrace. Although we’ve shared an intimacy that’s rare for a man and woman who aren’t a couple, we’ve never expressed our love this physically. The warmth of his body, the smell of his bay rum shaving lotion, and his cheek against my hair are such a comfort after my distressful experiences. But I remember that the last man to embrace me was Barrett, and Hugh pats my back while I cry. I feel his body heave; he too is crying for love lost.
When we’re finished, we step apart and wipe our eyes. Mick is slouched on the sofa, embarrassed by our display of emotion. Hugh clears his throat and says, “Now that that’s over, back to business. How do we find out who really killed Robin?”
I’m glad he’s decided not to quit our detective agency and glad I’m able to say, “I think I already know.”
Hugh and Mick exclaim in surprise. “How’d you find out?” Mick asks.
I sit beside Mick while Hugh reclines on the chaise longue, and I describe my visit to DeQuincey.
“So it was John Pierce,” Hugh says. I can tell that he’d been afraid it was Tristan and he’s glad to hear otherwise.
Now that the heat of the moment when I heard DeQuincey’s story about Pierce has passed, seeds of doubt germinate in the cold light of reason. “There’s no proof that Pierce murdered Robin. The only thing DeQuincey saw Pierce do was take the ransom money.”
“That Pierce is so determined to send DeQuincey to the gallows is proof enough for me,” Hugh says.
I’m aware that Pierce’s guilt isn’t the only bone of contention between Hugh and me. We’re still arguing for and against Tristan’s innocence. “Understand that even without absolute proof, I’m ready to believe Pierce murdered Robin, Tabitha, Noel Vaughn, and Ethel Norris, but I’m afraid the police won’t be.”
“Yeah,” Mick
says. “They think they’ve already got their man.”
“Inspector Reid would be more furious at us for meddling again than ready to trust anything we say,” I point out.
“We could tell Barrett first,” Hugh says. “Maybe he can help us convince Reid.”
“He won’t.” Anguish pains me as I think of Barrett.
“Why not?” Hugh asks. “I know you two are on the outs, but Barrett is an honorable fellow who wouldn’t want the wronged man hanged.”
Unable to bear describing my hurtful conversation with Barrett, I say, “DeQuincey isn’t a credible witness. He has a police record. Barrett would probably think DeQuincey made up the whole story about John Pierce to save himself.”
“But we can’t just sit on the information,” Hugh says. “And I still want to solve this case.” His eyes light with the same enthusiasm as when we began our investigation.
“So do I.” After all that our investigation has cost us—my illusions about my father, our broken hearts, and my photography equipment—fulfilling our original purpose would be fair enough compensation.
“Fortunately, the police aren’t our only recourse,” Hugh says. “We’ll tell Sir Gerald.”
#
The train to Hampstead thunders through the night. Vapor condenses and drips down the window beside the seats where Mick and I sit opposite Hugh. It’s so foggy that all I can see outside are the lamps on posts along the track. We waited until night to return to Mariner House, when Sir Gerald is likely to be home. This journey seems a negative image of my first one to Mariner House—darkness instead of daylight, dread instead of high hopes. I think we all feel a sense of inevitability, as if fate has steered us toward whatever will happen there tonight. Tonight will see the end of everything, for better or worse.
“Do you think Sir Gerald will believe us?” Mick asks.
“Let’s not jinx ourselves by speculating,” Hugh says with a smile. There’s a sparkle to him that I’ve not seen since before Robin’s body was found in the pond.
“First things first,” I say. “We have to get there.”
At nine twenty on this cold evening, we’re the only passengers who get off the train at Hampstead Heath station. The high street is empty of pedestrians and traffic, the shops closed. Lights shine from two public houses, where I suppose any reporters in the neighborhood have taken refuge. A lone carriage for hire waits by the deserted green. We hurry to it and climb in. “Mariner House,” Hugh calls to the driver.
As we ride through town, I peer at the shop windows and see that the photographs of Robin and Lady Alexandra have been replaced by newspaper front pages bearing an illustration of Raphael DeQuincey behind bars. I shiver. Hugh and Mick are silent, infected with the same unease as myself. We gaze out at the fog that renders the heath beyond the fences and hedgerows invisible. As we ascend the hill, the woods envelop us like a mythical forest, which parts to let the hero walk in and then seals off the path behind him. Water drips from the trees, and branches scrape the carriage’s roof. I fight the notion that we’ll never return from Mariner House.
“We can still change our minds,” I say, recalling that Hugh said the same thing during our first trip.
“Couldn’t pay me enough to turn back,” Mick says.
“Ditto.” Hugh leans forward as if to make the carriage go faster.
I think he’s not just eager to tell Sir Gerald that John Pierce murdered Robin—he hopes to see Tristan as well.
Before we reach the summit of the hill, Hugh tells the driver to let us out. The night smells of wet earth. The darkness is total between the lamps on posts spaced at wide intervals. We bypass each one and aim for the next, like ships at sea following lighthouses along the coast. We walk until we see several men standing by the gates of Mariner House. Voices and laughter drift toward us. Two of the men are wearing police helmets. The others are Sir Gerald’s guards.
“We can’t just waltz up to them and ask to see Sir Gerald,” Hugh whispers. “We’re personae non gratae, excuse my Latin.”
“We better use the tunnel,” Mick says.
“What tunnel?” Hugh asks.
I explain about Sir Gerald’s secret exit. “But the door inside the house is locked.”
Mick grins. “Not now, it ain’t. I unlocked it before we left last time, just in case.”
So that’s what he was doing when he wandered off that night.
“Good thinking.” Hugh claps Mick on the shoulder. “Onward!”
Mick glances at the dark woods and says to me, “We need the light.”
I open my satchel and remove the small metal lantern. Mick lights it with a match from his pocket and carries it while we trudge through the woods. Beyond the high brick wall, Mariner House is a black hulk with few lighted windows. I hear footsteps in the distance and see lights from other lanterns flickering between the trees—Sir Gerald’s guards patrolling. Twice, they come so near that Mick has to extinguish the lantern and we huddle in the darkness until they’re gone. More than an hour later, we haven’t found the entrance to the tunnel.
“It’s here somewhere,” Mick says.
Every tree, every stretch of hillside, looks alike. We’re tired and cold, and my feet are soaked; Hugh and I muffle coughs from our smoke-irritated lungs. At last Mick says, “Ha!” He’s located the steep, rocky slope overhung with vines. He opens the iron door and shines the lantern into the tunnel.
“Are you sure it won’t collapse?” Hugh asks.
“It only needs to hold up ’til we’re inside the house,” Mick says.
“Somehow that doesn’t reassure me,” Hugh says, but he follows Mick and me into the tunnel.
Although Mick lights the first few oil lamps strung along the walls before he extinguishes our lantern and closes the door, the tunnel seems even darker than the first time. The night seems to add an extra weight that presses down on the ceiling. As I follow Mick up through the zigzagging tunnel and pause while he lights more lamps, behind me Hugh’s breathing grows labored, and he coughs constantly. I’m afraid someone in the house will hear or our passage will bring down the tunnel. I try to calm myself with the idea that Sir Gerald must keep the tunnel in good repair in case he has to use it himself. Not a moment too soon, we reach the far end. Now I’m more afraid of what awaits us on the other side.
The door opens easily. Hugh whispers, “Thank God,” as we step into a stone-walled passage.
Moments later, we’re stealing past the kitchen, pantry, and scullery. The house seems deserted, too quiet. Climbing the back stairs, I feel uneasy because I don’t know where John Pierce is. If we run into him, he’ll surely prevent us from seeing Sir Gerald. “Let’s try Sir Gerald’s office,” I whisper.
“I know where it is,” Mick says.
He leads us to the second floor of the south wing. The passage is dark except for gas lamps burning at the entrance to the mansion’s central wing and a faint glow from a doorway at the end. Mick points to the doorway. We tiptoe to it and cautiously step inside. The large room, paneled with wood and furnished with leather chairs and sofas, is illuminated by a fire burning in the hearth at the right and dim gaslight from an alcove at the left. A faint smell of decay underlies the odors of wood and smoke. Now I see a bear standing eight feet tall on its hind legs and a tiger whose fangs are exposed in a snarl. On the walls are dozens of mounted heads—deer and elks with branching antlers; a rhinoceros like an ugly, leathery unicorn. I remember the tour guide mentioning Sir Gerald’s hunting trophies. The office is quiet and still except for the crackling of the fire. Curtains on the windows are open; darkness presses against the panes. I think Sir Gerald must have stepped out. As I wonder where to look for him, I hear grunting, panting noises.
My heart lurches. Hugh and Mick stiffen. Through my mind flashes the notion that one of the beasts is alive. The sounds are coming from the alcove, and we move toward it, irresistibly curious. Zebra skins spread on the floor muffle the noise of our footsteps. Gold and jeweled artifacts gli
tter in the glass cases; a statue of a Japanese warrior poses in full armor. These, and the other treasures I barely glimpse, must be souvenirs of Sir Gerald’s travels. On each side of the entrance to the alcove stands an upright elephant tusk, long and curved and sharp-pointed. The alcove contains a desk with a window behind it and bookshelves on either side. In the dim light from a green-shaded gas lamp suspended from the ceiling, Sir Gerald sits with his head resting on his folded arms amid papers, ledgers, a bottle of brandy, and a half-full glass. His shoulders quake, and his grunts and pants sound like those of a wounded animal.
He’s crying.
We watch, fascinated; it’s as though a titan has crumbled. Sir Gerald is grieving with the age-old grief of every bereaved father who’s just buried a child. I wonder if my father ever grieved over losing me when he left me forever. Sympathy for Sir Gerald wells in me, and I wonder what else he might be grieving about. His knowledge that the people close to him are so untrustworthy and his relationships with them so loveless that one of them murdered his son? The idea that his son’s own mother could be the killer? He and my father aren’t the same person, but they’re both a mystery to me.
Sir Gerald senses our presence and raises his head. His face is swollen and mottled from weeping. He wears a dressing gown and nightshirt, and his hair is disheveled, as if he rose from his bed because he couldn’t sleep and sought refuge here among his mementos of better times. He looks appalled and furious that anyone should see him like this.
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