A Dog in a Doublet

by Emma V. Leech

  Harry shook off the men’s hold with fury as Clarinda walked in the door with her father.

  “Harry!” she cried, running to him and staring with horror at the men flanking him on either side. “What’s happening?”

  “Mrs Preston has just accused me of murdering Edwin and Wilfred Preston,” he said, his tone grim. Clarinda gasped, but the sound was lost as a great one filled the hall.

  “What?” the squire bellowed, his huge frame trembling with indignation as he swelled with fury. “How dare you, madam! That’s a filthy lie, and you know it!”

  Norah quailed a little in the face of the squire’s fury, but stood firm.

  “He’s a murderer,” she insisted, and any beauty she had possessed seemed dead and gone in that moment, her features twisted and ugly with hatred.

  “I know your sort,” the squire said, crossing the hall and pointing at her. “Harlot! I’ll bet you’ve been sniffing about the lad, got your nose put out of joint when he turned you down, eh, my fine doxy?”

  Norah gasped in outrage, but she blushed, too, which the squire took as answer enough.

  “Aye, I thought as much,” he retorted, sneering at her and turning to Formby with a fierce expression on his usually jovial face. “If you’re half as clever as I’m told... I don’t need to say more, I reckon.”

  “No, indeed you don’t,” Mr Formby said with a polite smile though his eyes were glittering with irritation. “Yet I find I retain a strong desire to question my own witness. If you please, Mrs Preston.” He gestured for her to make her way to the parlour and Norah scowled at him, snatching her wrap from her disapproving maid and nearly tumbling down the stairs. She clung to the banister and what remained of her dignity as she continued to the parlour.

  “If you would wait in the study as requested, my lord. My men will wait just outside the door,” Mr Formby said, as if he were inviting Harry to afternoon tea and not keeping him under house arrest.

  Harry had little choice but to comply, and Clarinda clung to his arm as they made their way into the study.

  “Thank you, sir,” Harry said to the squire once the door had shut. “I was never more pleased to see you. Both of you,” he added, squeezing Clarinda’s hand and feeling sick to his stomach. Was this to be it, then? Would he swing for two murders he’d had no hand in?

  The squire waved his words away, his face grim. “No need,” he said, his voice low with concern. “It’s clear enough the type she is, has been from the start. But if she persists ...”

  Harry nodded, not needing him to say more. There was a soft knock at the door and everyone looked up as Mildred hurried in. She cast the squire a shy smile before running to Harry.

  “Oh, my lord, they can’t think that you did it, surely?” she said, her voice trembling with agitation. “It’s ridiculous, I-I shall tell them so.” She began to cry, and the squire lost no time in offering her his handkerchief and settling her down with a little tot of brandy for her nerves.

  By the time Mr Formby arrived, the room was tense and silent, and Harry did his best to reassure Clarinda and Mildred that there was no cause for concern, even though everyone knew he was lying through his teeth. The squire ushered the ladies out, saying to Harry in a low voice that he’d not leave, and to call if he was needed.

  Harry stood in the middle of the room once they’d gone, staring at Formby. He felt his stomach roil, a cold sweat pricking over him, and the ghastly sensation of that rope at his neck only too easy to imagine.

  “Are you going to arrest me, then?” he demanded, wishing the man would get it over with if he was going to.

  “Should I?” Mr Formby asked, those shrewd eyes narrowed. The words were innocent enough, but they jolted through Harry. He might not have murdered Edwin or Wilfred, but he did have blood on his hands.

  “I didn’t kill either of them,” Harry replied, his voice firm.

  “That’s not exactly what I asked,” Formby replied, still staring at Harry.

  Harry turned away and poured himself a drink, despite the fact it was barely midmorning. “If you have something to say, for the love of God, say it,” he said, quite unable to keep the anger and frustration from his voice.

  “Oh, no,” Formby said, settling himself down in a chair and plucking his pencil from behind his ear. “I’ve got nothing, my lord. Not on you.”

  Harry turned to look at the man and found a curious smile curving the inspector’s mouth.

  “I don’t believe Mrs Preston’s testimony. I’m afraid your prospective father-in-law rather hit the nail on the head in his assessment, in my opinion,” he said with a crooked smile. He continued to study Harry, his expression measuring, as though he wanted to see into Harry’s head. “However, to have nothing at all on you is not a good thing, either. You see, nothing is something ... for a man like me,” he added with a rueful glint in his eyes. “You seem to have sprung to life fully formed, as it were.”

  Harry felt that sickening feeling grow in his belly, but reminded himself that he couldn’t be hung for not having a past.

  “Trouble is, I’m relying on others to follow the trail, seeing as I can’t be in two places at once,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an increasingly battered notebook. He flicked through the pages, taking his time. “They’ve turned nothing up for young Harry Thompson. No mark in a parish register, no sightings. No one’s ever heard of him.”

  “I wasn’t born in London.”

  Mr Formby sat up, his face enquiring. “Oh? You never mentioned this before.”

  “You never asked,” Harry replied, frowning. “And to be honest, I just never thought you’d want to know that. Besides, it won’t help you,” he added, moving to sit behind his desk. “I know I was born in the country, but I don’t know where.” That much was true enough. At least, he thought it was. His earliest memory had been of trees, leaves waving over in the breeze, a thick green canopy spread over his head. He’d dreamed of it sometimes as a boy, longed for it. No way that was Southwark.

  “Well, if Lord Preston was your father, stands to reason it would be close by, I suppose,” Formby mused, pursing his lips. “If your mother returned to her family once she left here, it’s likely it wasn’t too far afield.” He jotted some notes in the blasted book as Harry looked on with misgiving. “I’ll have the lads check out the local parishes, see what we can turn up.” He returned to his notebook and muttered as he wrote. “Born December eighteenth, 1788.”

  Harry felt his breath catch. “How did you know my date of birth?” he asked, trying to keep his tone nonchalant.

  “It’s in the will, my lord,” Formby said, not looking up as he underscored the date. “Did you not know?”

  Harry shrugged. Fool. Of course Alistair would have put it in. He’d not hid it from the old man, hadn’t had any reason to. In any case, it meant nothing. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Wouldn’t it?

  “Is that how Lord Preston found you, then?” Formby asked, his head tilting a little in that unnerving manner he had when he thought he’d hit on something of interest. “Did you come back to find him? Or did you just come back to where you’d sprung from and it happened, accidental like?”

  Harry stood, feeling all at once that he’d said too much. Things were getting too close for his peace of mind. He began to gather the papers on his desk, avoiding Formby’s eye.

  “If you’re not going to arrest me, inspector, could we continue this discussion another day? I feel I’ve endured enough for the time being, and the estate requires my attention. I’ve neglected it for too long, with everything so up in the air.”

  Formby returned a placid smile and reached for his hat. “Of course, my lord. I shouldn’t wonder if your nerves are a tad frayed after the goings on you’ve had here of late,” he said, sounding far too jovial and easy-going for Harry’s comfort. “I’ll come back tomorrow and we’ll continue where we left off then. That suit you?”

  Harry nodded and gave the man a brusque hand s
hake before seeing him out.

  Oh God. Oh God.

  Scrubbing a hand over his face, Harry waited until he saw Formby and his men depart, and then headed for the door. He needed air. The walls of the great castle were closing in, pressing down on him. His past seemed forever to be lingering, hiding in the shadows, the spectre of Joe’s face, his blood slick on the cobbles, sliding out of the past and tainting everything he touched. No matter how he tried to run, to shake it off, it clung to him, stubborn as a burr. He’d done a dreadful thing and he wouldn’t be allowed to forget it, to start again as if it had never been. Because it had been, and it wouldn’t be forgotten, brushed under the carpet. He’d taken a man’s life and retribution was demanded.

  Before he knew it, he was at Alistair’s grave and he sank to his knees. “Oh, God forgive me,” he said, putting his head in his hands. “Please help me, Alistair. Tell me what to do. I’m lost. I know this is what you wanted, and I’ve tried, I swear I have. But I don’t want to hang. I don’t.”

  “Harry?”

  He jolted with alarm, unaware anyone had been nearby, and hauled in a breath to see it was Clarinda. Bloody fool, talking out loud in such a fashion.

  “Go home, Clara,” he said, turning away from her and feeling terror that she should be tainted by him, ruined by the scandal he’d bring to her door. “For God’s sake, go home.”

  “I won’t,” she said, and he could hear the scowl on her face without even looking at her. “Harry Thompson, or Preston, or whatever the devil your name is,” she said, sounding increasingly angry. “Don’t you think you’re going to frighten me off at this late stage. If you haven’t been able to do it so far, you’ll not do it at all, so don’t bother trying.”

  Harry gave a broken laugh, staring up at her with wonder. Why would this remarkable woman stick with him with such stubborn determination? Why not let him go and marry her marquess, or some other wealthy man who could give her the honesty of his own name, at least?

  “Because I love you, Harry,” she said as if he’d spoken the question out loud, smiling at him and shaking her head with frustration. “One day, you’ll realise that’s true.”

  He swallowed and took a breath, wondering if God had a twisted sense of humour, to give him so much only to take it away again. Harry turned away, tears prickling behind his eyes as he wondered how he could possibly endure it, and stared back at Alistair’s grave.

  “They’re delivering his headstone next week,” he said, amusement in his voice despite everything as he thought of Alistair’s glee at his own overblown, and rather vulgar, choice. “A massive, marble weeping angel,” he said, grinning and remembering the look of sheer devilry in the old goat’s eyes when he’d seen the design for it. “Cost a king’s ransom, it did,” he added, laughing harder as his eyes watered and he tried to keep himself from sobbing instead. “My word, if Wilfred had seen it, no one would have needed to smother him, he’d have died on the spot.”

  Clara smothered a chortle of laughter and he looked up at her with a sigh, torn between laughing harder and bawling his eyes out.

  “I don’t know what my name is,” he said, the words blurted out all at once, his voice strained and desperate.

  “What?” She frowned at him and stepped closer, reaching for his hand as he got to his feet. “What do you mean?”

  Harry took a deep breath and looked up at the heavens. It was a lovely day, at last. After weeks of drizzle and cold and grey skies, the summer had come late, and the blue above was soft and warm, a gentle breeze stirring the grasses in the meadows beyond the chapel.

  “I killed a man, Clara,” he said, his voice low.

  Clara nodded, though no shock or surprise showed in her eyes. She gave him an uncertain smile. “I thought ... perhaps you had,” she said, squeezing his hand, such trust in her eyes that he wanted to cry.

  “He was a bad, bad man, Clara.”

  She nodded again, such trust in her eyes that he felt humbled by it. “I know that,” she said, as if it needed no further explanation. “You’d not have done it otherwise.”

  “It was an accident,” he said, his voice firm, praying that she should believe him. “I didn’t mean to do it, but ...” He hauled in a breath. “There were witnesses, Clara, dozens of them. I knocked him down in a fight in the middle of the street. He fell and hit his head, and ...”

  Clara clung to his hand, silent, yet her grip on his fingers showing that it changed nothing.

  But it would.

  In the end, it would.

  “He was my uncle,” he said, his tone bleak. “Least ways, he was married to my aunt and I was given his name. Browning. Harry Browning. I was christened Horatio, I think, but they always called me Harry, I don’t know why. But Browning ... that wasn’t my mother’s name, nor my fathers, and I don’t know what was. I never did.”

  “Oh, Harry.” Clarinda’s eyes were full of love and sorrow. “Do you have nothing of hers? No connection to her?”

  Harry shrugged. “A little scrap of paper she wrote on. The words are too blurred to read now. By the time I learned how, it was too damaged.”

  “You don’t remember her?” she asked, and Harry drew in a breath.

  “A little, but ... it’s more of a feeling, really. Of being loved, safe,” he let out a breath, shaking his head. “Bloody silly, I reckon.”

  “Don’t say that!” Clara said in fury. “It’s true, you know it is. She loved you, Harry, and she’d be proud of you if she could see you now.”

  Harry swallowed, pushing down emotions that he couldn’t cope with, that threatened to unman him if he didn’t force them away.

  “Well, maybe it’s as well she died, then, seeing the mess I’m in now,” he said with a twisted grin. He stared out over the fields and the trees, wishing he could have lived his life here, with Clara, like the old man had hoped he would. “She came from round here, my mother,” he said, gesturing away past the woodland. “Peasmarsh, I think,” he said with a frown. “That’s why I came this way when I ran. Not that there was anyone here for me, only ...” He stopped, swallowing hard and taking a breath. “Stupid, really. But I had nowhere else to go.”

  “I’m so glad you did, Harry,” she said, her voice soft as she stared up at him. She took his other hand and leaned into him. “Think what a dreadful, spoilt creature I’d be by now if you hadn’t.”

  Harry laughed despite himself. “Dreadful,” he repeated, shaking his head and staring down at her with such regret that his throat grew tight. “Clara,” he said, needing her to understand just how bad things were. “I ... I made a mistake today. I told Formby I was born in the country. I didn’t think it would matter, as he had no idea where, but seeing as he thinks I really am Alistair’s heir, he’d going to look in the local parishes. He’ll find me, Clara,” he said, his voice growing strained as he saw the fear in her eyes. “He’ll find me, and he’ll track me back to Southwark, and then he’ll find Joe.”

  Clara shook her head, her voice full of fury and indignation. “He won’t prove anything, Harry. Papa will see to it. You’ll have the best lawyers ...”

  Harry pressed a finger to her lips and prayed his voice wouldn’t break. “It won’t be any good, love,” he whispered. “I’m guilty.”

  “No, Harry. No!” she said, her voice growing strident now. She dropped his hands and began to pace. “Then we’ll run away. We’ll go far away to ... to France. I can speak French, enough to get us started, at least,” she said, but Harry grabbed hold of her and pulled her to a halt, and she stopped as she saw the look in his eyes.

  “I won’t run.”

  “B-but Harry ...” she began and ground to halt as he shook his head.

  “I’ll not run again, Clara. Not ever again. I’ll get everything, Stamford, the title ... you ...” he added, blinking away tears and tracing a gentle finger over her cheek. “Everything my heart desires ... Or I’ll have none of it.”

  “P-please, Harry,” she sobbed. But he knew that no amount of pleading
or begging would change his mind. If he had to pay for Joe’s death, then he would. He’d find a way to keep Clara out of it, the squire would know how best to arrange things, but he’d not run. Alistair had wanted him to be brave, to stand bluff, and so he would.

  He held onto Clara’s hand and turned back to the grave, staring down at it with a fierce expression.

  “I won’t forget, old man.”

  Chapter 31

  His morning and evening songs do not agree - he tells an inconsistent story

  - The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

  The squire and Clarinda stayed for dinner. With the usual illogical and erratic manner of an English summer, the lovely afternoon vanished as quickly as it had arrived, and a violent thunderstorm rattled the rooftops of Stamford.

  Hurried arrangements were made for rooms for the squire and Clarinda, as the rain was coming down in sheets and the roads would be impassable.

  Despite his words to Clara earlier, Harry couldn’t help but be glad of it. He felt every hour now was precious to him; at any moment everything he loved would be taken from his grasp and his life should be ended in such an ... ignominious manner.

  How the mighty had fallen.

  The idea almost made him sneer at himself. Wilfred had been right after all. He’d thought he’d been mighty lucky, and yes ... rather clever, too. Well, this was where all that luck and cleverness had ended him.

  Still, it had been good while it lasted. He’d been happy, he realised. Happier than he’d ever thought possible. Stamford and the old man, Beryl and Reggie, and even strange old Ramsy, they’d become his family. A family he’d longed for and never known before Alistair Preston had brought him home.

  He’d be grateful for that, at least.

  Harry sat up late, playing cards with the squire and Clarinda and Mildred, none of them willing to say goodnight. It was almost as though they knew it was all about to end, too, and there was nothing any of them could do about it.