Letter from a Dead Man

by Dawn Harris

  But why had Cuthbert and his two immediate heirs been murdered? Did someone have a grudge against the family? Or was it all to do with money and position? Going back to the chart, I drew up the Saxborough family tree, starting with the notorious William. Married twice, his wives had only produced daughters. He’d had one brother, whom he loathed, and rather than allow him to inherit, he made provision for the inheritance to go through the female line, if necessary.

  Which, I concluded, meant Mr Reevers, the son of Cuthbert’s eldest sister, was Giles’s heir at present. It wasn’t until I began writing down the names of Cuthbert’s six sisters that I thought of Vincent. And saw how his being alive changed everything. For, until Lucie and Giles had children, Vincent and Piers came between Giles and Mr Reevers. Something neither Mr Reevers, nor Giles, were aware of until after Thomas and Tom had died.

  Hardly a week had passed since the arrival of Vincent’s letter, yet I knew a good deal about him from his earlier communications. I’ve always had a good memory, and I recorded what Vincent had written of his wife and son, their health and appearance, and about his own impecunious state at that time. And that now he could afford to travel in America for a year with his son. Details that helped me see the family as a whole.

  I noted where the men of the family were at the time of the two incidents. Giles had been riding on the estate when his father died, and sailing back across the Solent when Thomas’s yacht foundered. Mr Reevers had sailed to London the day before the two bodies were found, but where he was when Cuthbert died, no-one knew. Vincent and Piers had been either in America, or crossing the Atlantic, and still being at sea, would not yet be aware of the yachting tragedy. Having included every fact I could think of, I waited until the ink had dried and then fixed the chart of events to the wall, with the family tree next to it, and stood looking at it for some time.

  Lucie joined us for dinner as planned, but only pecked at her food and was so subdued that the instant the servants left the room, I demanded to know what was wrong. But it was Aunt Thirza who answered, her bosom heaving with indignation. ‘I met the parson’s wife on the way to Ledstone, and she had the temerity to ask if, in the circumstances, Lucie meant to cry off from the wedding.’

  ‘Cry off?’ I repeated, astounded. ‘What circumstances are you talking about?’

  Lucie looked up, her lip trembling. ‘Drusilla, they are saying that Giles - that he -’

  My aunt cut in, ‘There is speculation that Thomas and Tom did not die as a result of an accident. And that Giles had a hand in it-------’ That completely took my breath away, and while I struggled to find my voice, my aunt went on worriedly, ‘It’s most unfortunate Giles was at sea that night.’ I recalled that after visiting Mr Reevers, a delay in a business matter had caused him to leave later than planned.

  ‘He was seen mooring his boat in Yarmouth early that morning,’ Lucie whispered.

  ‘It’s being said,’ my aunt went on, a tremor in her voice, ‘that Giles paid smugglers to make the deaths appear accidental.’

  I burst out angrily, ‘That’s a monstrous suggestion.’

  Aunt Thirza could not hide her concern. ‘It’s all over the Island, according to Mrs Upton.’ The parson’s wife loved nothing better than spreading rumours.

  ‘The thing is, Drusilla,’ Lucie whispered, ‘Giles is friendly with the local smugglers. And last night--’

  ‘It’s absolute nonsense,’ I said, ‘as you -----.’

  My aunt cut in, ‘What Lucie is trying to tell you is that-----‘ Her voice shook, but she forced herself to go on. ‘Last night, Giles was seen giving money to smugglers.’

  I opened and shut my mouth twice before any words came out. ‘Who saw him?’ I managed at last.

  My aunt shook her head. ‘Mrs Upton said it was common knowledge.’

  ‘What does Giles say?’

  ‘He wasn’t there when Mama arrived. He’d gone to Newport on business,’ Lucie said, with tear-filled eyes, and my heart went out to her. Preparing for her marriage should have been a happy period in her life. Not a time of tragedy, worry, and now this awful rumour. Nor did she know her father was in prison. And I wondered why it was that troubles always seemed to come together.

  I tried my best to calm her fears, but she was still upset. ‘How could anyone think Giles capable of such a wicked thing?’

  ‘People who know him won’t think it,’ I said, with quiet conviction. ‘The truth is, with Giles coming into his inheritance in such a way, there was bound to be a good deal of wild gossip.’

  Aunt Thirza said, ‘That’s exactly what I told Mrs Saxborough.’

  ‘Wha-at?’ I stared at her in horror. ‘You told my godmother about these rumours?’

  Aunt Thirza’s lifted an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh Aunt, how could you? Just when she was beginning to calm down too.’

  My aunt was bewildered. ‘But she was bound to hear them.’

  ‘How?’ I was absolutely seething. ‘She hasn’t gone out since the accident, and she refuses to see any visitors at present but ourselves. Who would have told her?’

  ‘If I had a son, and such rumours were circulating about him, I would wish to know.’

  Tossing my napkin onto the table, I pushed back my chair. ‘Yes, but you are not Marguerite Saxborough.’

  Aunt Thirza sniffed. ‘I think it unwise to shield Mrs Saxborough from the truth. Naturally, I told her the rumours were nonsense. No person of sense would believe Giles had anything to do with it. If they were murdered, it’s far more likely to mean the start of a Revolution in England. And that’s what I told her.’

  I closed my eyes and groaned. After what was happening in France, this was precisely what many people, including Marguerite, did fear.

  I was so angry, that for one very brief moment, I asked myself why it was that, if a murderer was indeed at large, he had failed to choose my aunt as a victim.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Giles came over later and put our minds at rest by explaining the men in question had been out from dawn to dusk every day searching for wreckage from Thomas’s yacht. ‘I gave them some money because they hadn’t worked since the accident. Most have families to feed and I couldn’t let them be out of pocket on my account.’

  So that was how it had happened. Someone had seen him do it, and jumped to the wrong conclusions. How easily rumours were started.

  Before he left I had a word with him urging quietly, ‘Giles, oughtn’t you tell my aunt and cousin about my uncle?’

  ‘I will. As soon as the contact at the prison finds out what the actual situation is.’ I swallowed hard, thinking of what my uncle must be suffering, and the awful fate that could lay ahead of him. ‘Don’t despair, Drusilla. He’s alive, and that’s what matters.’

  It was just like Giles to remain optimistic. Yet each day my uncle spent in prison brought him closer to facing trial, and for someone of his class there would be only one verdict. It was also typical of Giles that in the midst of the worst tragedy in his own life, he’d still found time to think of Lucie’s father.

  Now he’d become Mr Saxborough of Ledstone Place, a man of fortune and immense influence in the Island, he soon set about implementing the reforms he considered essential. Increasing the pay of his employees, improving the servants’ quarters, and living conditions of his tenants. Giles had seen how the worst members of the French aristocracy had forced their dependants to live in hovels, to bake their bread in the estate ovens, paying an inflated price for the privilege, uncaring of whether they or their children starved as a result. Cuthbert Saxborough had not gone to those lengths, but Giles, unhappy with the way his father treated his servants and tenants, had added that touch of humanity missing from Ledstone for fifty years.

  Not everything was as easy to resolve, however. The five hundred pounds reward, a fortune to virtually every Islander, remained unclaimed. Yet someone must know how Thomas and Tom had died.

  I happened to call on Marguerite
shortly after she received the expected letter from Vincent, which she passed to me with a sigh. It was quite short, and had been written a week earlier, on board the ‘Carolina.’ Dated the 14th August, it read:-

  My dear Marguerite,

  Our ship docks in London in the morning after six long weeks at sea. My poor Piers has had a terrible time of it, being laid low with the most awful sea sickness.

  Once I have dealt with my business affairs in London, and Piers has recovered his strength, we will come down to the Island. I am so looking forward to seeing you all. You, my dear Marguerite, will I am sure be every bit as beautiful as I remember. When I left England Giles was just a baby, of course, and Thomas a happy-go-lucky boy of fifteen, much the same age as his own son must be now.

  We expect to cross the Solent in about two weeks and will put up at the George in Yarmouth.

  He ended in the usual way, signing his name with the same flourish as before. When I handed it back to her, she said in a faltering voice, ‘Vincent doesn’t know about Thomas and young Tom.’ Her bottom lip began to tremble. ‘However am I to tell him-----’

  ‘His man of business in London will do that. Or that friend he spoke of in his first letter - the one who sends him news of the family. It was in all the newspapers.’

  She began to look more hopeful again. ‘Perhaps when he hears the news he’ll decide not to come. He must realise how devastated we all are.’

  I thought that unlikely, for there could be no objection to visits from close family members at such a time, and Vincent had crossed an ocean in order to see his birthplace one last time. Marguerite, resigned to her fate, warned that no-one should expect her to enjoy it, for visitors always wore her down.

  Glancing out the window, she suddenly grabbed my arm in agitated fashion, pointing to a figure riding up to the house. ‘Who is that? Oh dear, where are my spectacles?’ And frantically began searching the table bearing her medicines and the latest fashionable journals. Slightly short-sighted, she refused to wear her spectacles in the company of anyone outside the family and myself.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said, recognising the horseman. ‘It’s only Mr Arnold.’ Her spectacles had fallen on the floor and having picked them up, I handed them to her.

  ‘Mr Arnold?’ Putting on her spectacles, she looked out the window. ‘So it is. I suppose he wants to see Giles.’ But Giles was out on the estate, and when Parker came to inquire if Marguerite would receive the visitor instead, she threw up her hands in resignation. ‘Oh very well.’ And quickly hid her spectacles in the table drawer.

  After exchanging the usual pleasantries, Mr Arnold took a letter from his pocket, explaining it was from John Delafield, his brother-in-law in New York. ‘There’s a passage I believe will interest you, ma’am. If I may read it to you?’

  Puzzled, murmuring politely, ‘By all means.’

  He unfolded the sheet. ‘It is dated the 10th of June, and my brother-in-law says, ’Early in February I met a most interesting gentleman staying at the house of a friend, here in New York. My intention was to write to you then, but some pressing business matters demanded my attention, and then - well, to be truthful, it slipped my mind, and you know how time flies when you are busy. Still, better late than never. This gentleman went by the name of Mr Vincent Saxborough.’’

  ‘Vincent?’ Marguerite echoed in surprise.

  Mr Arnold nodded, smiling. ‘I understand he is visiting Ledstone shortly, and I thought you would like to hear of this encounter, and he read on,

  ‘Mr Saxborough seemed a most agreeable gentleman, conducting himself with an ease of manner that could only please. His views in male company were those of a man of sense, while his undoubted charm made him a great favourite with the ladies. His clothes were of the finest, he was clearly quite at home in the very cream of society, and I soon discovered, (though not through him) that no hostess in town considered her dinner party complete without him. Which I could well understand, for he has a most amusing way of relating a story. His son, Piers, a rugged looking young man, was rather quiet, but it was clear he greatly admired the American way of life.

  Of course, with so unusual a surname, I asked Vincent if he was related to Mr Cuthbert Saxborough, and you can imagine my surprise when I discovered they were brothers, for I had no idea Mr Saxborough possessed a brother, had you? We talked at some length then, and on several other convivial occasions in the following weeks, before he and his son left New York to see something of the south.

  Quite by chance I bumped into Mr Saxborough a few days ago, when I learned he and his son had enjoyed several agreeable weeks of southern hospitality. He told me the sad news of his brother, and how it had made him think about Ledstone, which led, as such thoughts often do as one grows older, to a wish to see his boyhood home once more. I gather they leave for England at the beginning of July. Thinking of the old country made me realise I hadn’t written since January, which is very remiss of me. Still, I was sure you would be interested to hear of my encounter, and I can only say that it shows what a small world it is in which we live.’

  Mr Arnold folded the letter again. ‘The rest is family news, ma’am.’

  Marguerite thanked him for his kindness, and when he left a short time later, she sighed, ‘Mr Arnold meant it kindly, I know, and I am glad Vincent has made something of himself, but I still wish they weren’t coming here. It will be most awkward.’

  I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Marguerite. She’d had so much to contend with this year.

  The following afternoon, I was talking to Aunt Thirza in the drawing room when Mr Reevers called to inquire if I cared to ride out with him. He was impeccably dressed in riding breeches, a well-cut dark green coat, and top boots, and accepting his offer politely, I left him chatting to my aunt, while I sent a message to the stables and went to change into a riding dress. For some reason I couldn’t quite explain, I found myself wishing I could wear my bright blue habit, which suited me particularly well. But that was out of the question as I was still in mourning for my father.

  Putting on my hat and gloves, I collected my riding whip, and went downstairs again, where my aunt instantly commanded, ‘Mudd will go with you, Drusilla.’

  Before I could speak, Mr Reevers, quickly reassured her. ‘I’m delighted to see you believe in observing the proprieties, ma’am. Frankly I find the behaviour of many younger people these days leaves much to be desired.’

  It was as much as I could do to keep a straight face, and the moment we reached the courtyard, I burst out in amusement, ‘Do you always pander to the wishes of older ladies?’

  ‘Always,’ he insisted, his eyes gleaming wickedly. ‘And not only the older ones either.’ I shook my head at him, laughing.

  A few minutes later, as we picked our way along a very muddy Manor Lane towards the Downs, with Mudd following at the correct distance, Mr Reevers said, ‘I wanted to tell you, I may be coming to live on the Island? Giles has most generously offered me Norton House.’ I was so surprised I couldn’t think what to say. ‘My own house is being sold in order to settle the debts my father left when he died earlier this year.’ I looked at him in dismay, realising what it must mean to him, but he simply shrugged. ‘I knew he had debts, of course, but not the extent of them. He’d always dismissed them as insignificant,’ he said, unable to hide the irony in his voice. ‘In fact the sale will only just cover them. Fortunately, I have no family obligations to worry about. My father was a widower, all my sisters are married, and I have no brothers.’

  Feeling I should say something, I uttered a totally inadequate, ‘It must be very difficult for you, Mr Reevers.’

  A wry smile twisted his lips. ‘The dice falls the wrong way for us all at times, ma’am. I hope to find some other way of restoring my fortune.’

  I wondered how he could possibly resolve such a devastating, and unforeseen, financial hardship, but he didn’t refer to it again. Instead he challenged me to a race across the Downs, and seemed not at all put out whe
n I won. Riding along at walking pace, waiting for Mudd to catch up, Mr Reevers asked if Smith had been dealt with yet.

  ‘Unfortunately not. Mr Arnold’s men are too busy looking for Thomas’s yacht.’

  ‘And no-one is watching Smith?’

  ‘No, so I shall have to be patient. Which,’ I admitted ruefully, ‘is not something I am good at. My father said I was far too impulsive, and I know it to be true, though I do try not to be.’

  ‘You run the estate yourself?’

  ‘Father taught me how, and generally I enjoy it. My other tenants are honest and hard-working. Naturally they have their problems, as we all do.’ As I went on to elaborate, I caught sight of two women walking towards the Down and instantly urged, ‘Let’s canter on.’

  He raised his brows. ‘When Mudd is not even in sight? Really ma’am, you shock me. What would your aunt say?’

  ‘Oh, never mind that,’ I muttered brusquely. ‘That awful Mrs Upton is coming this way.’

  ‘The parson’s wife?’

  I nodded. ‘She’s the one who spread those ugly rumours about Giles giving money to smugglers, and if I have to speak to her I will almost certainly be extremely rude.’

  His lips twitched. ‘It’s too late, I’m afraid. They’ve seen us. If we ride off now, with Mudd nowhere to be seen-----‘ he let the sentence hang in the air, and I groaned.

  Mrs Upton’s eyes were gleaming as she and her companion approached us. ‘Lady Drusilla, how pleasant. And Mr Reevers too.’ As he returned her greeting, she looked around for a groom, and seeing no-one, asked archly, ‘Is Mudd not with you?’

  Mr Reevers said pleasantly, ‘Lady Drusilla dropped her handkerchief and he’s gone to fetch it.’ At that moment, Mudd came into sight, and when he reached us, Mr Reevers asked if he’d found my handkerchief.

  Mudd blinked, but being familiar with my opinion of the parson’s wife, took in the situation at a glance. ‘No sir. I think the wind must have taken it.’