by Dawn Harris
‘And you did lose your son, didn’t you?’ I murmured softly. ‘He died. The man we knew as Piers had the blond hair of a Saxborough, and gray eyes not too far removed from the blue of so many of your ancestors. A man educated in England, who would be accepted as your son.’
Vincent shook his head in disbelief. ‘I fear the events of today have unhinged your mind, ma’am.’
He spoke in his usual charming manner, more in sadness than anger. All along I had accepted it was impossible for him or Piers to be involved with the murders, when voyages between England and America might take six or seven weeks, and often more in bad weather. And I had grown to like Vincent. He was excellent company, an intelligent conversationalist, a man of good sense who showed considerable kindness to my godmother. Even when I realised the truth, he had remained all of those things. At no time displaying the loathsome, callous or unfeeling traits of a man who had cold bloodedly planned the murders of three members of his own family, and devised two attempts on my own life. A fact I found totally unnerving.
But, charming or not, he was guilty, and had to answer for his actions. I thought of the lives he’d cut short, of young Tom in particular, and responded to his derision with an abrupt, ‘There is nothing wrong with my mind, Mr Saxborough. As I shall prove to--------’
‘Lady Drusilla, I beg of you,’ he drawled, still well in command of himself. ‘Do please allow me to stop you making a fool of yourself. Piers and I were in America until the first of July. Correct me if I am wrong, but Cuthbert died in April and the yachting tragedy occurred at the end of July. We didn’t reach------’
He stopped, for I had lifted my brows at him, because at no time had I accused him of killing his brother. He had associated the two incidents himself, and any lingering doubts I had as to how Cuthbert had died, disappeared. I remained silent, however, and after a moment’s hesitation, he carried on, his most pressing need being to establish his innocence. ‘We didn’t reach London until the fifteenth of August,’ he pointed out. ‘Captain Kettlewell can vouch for that. Indeed, you were present when I met the captain again, quite by chance, I might add, at Westfleet. And we talked of the crossing then, if you remember.’
At the time I had indeed accepted that as absolute proof that Vincent and Piers were not involved with the murders. ‘Yes, I admit that baffled me for a while. Until I recalled that Captain Kettlewell said Piers kept to his cabin---’
‘He was seasick----’
‘So you maintained. But it’s my belief it was Wistow, your valet, who occupied that cabin, not Piers. The perfect servant who had to be paid an exorbitant salary.’
This, I suspected, was the man Vincent had ensured I’d seen in the library, dressed in one of Piers’s maroon coats, the day Piers attacked Leatherbarrow. And when Wistow went to visit his sick father in London, Vincent and Piers had ridden off within half an hour of his departure, supposedly to Newport. I doubted the valet ever left the Island, or that his father was really ill. Wistow had simply known far too much.
Father had believed that solving a mystery was often a matter of asking the right question. I saw now that I should have asked Captain Kettlewell to describe the man who sailed home with Vincent on his ship. For the tall, slim, brown-haired Wistow, bore little resemblance to the short, stocky Piers, with his blond curls. But it hadn’t occurred to me then, for I’d seen no reason to doubt that Vincent and Piers had travelled back to England together. When I did think of it, the captain was well on his way to New York.
Vincent dismissed my suggestion with an airy wave of his hand. ‘Oh, really, Lady Drusilla, I think you have been reading too many novels.’
Marguerite, pale and bewildered, turned to Vincent uncertainly, and when he smiled at her, her features relaxed. For, despite everything I had said, she found it impossible to accept that this charming man, who had been such a comfort to her, was capable of harming anyone. And, in that moment, she persuaded herself that, somehow, I must have got it all wrong.
‘Drusilla is very fond of reading,’ she agreed uncertainly. ‘Oh dear, I do hope I am not to blame. I did lend her a novel recently in which some very odd things happened.’ And she found another excuse for my behaviour. ‘She hasn’t really recovered from the death of her dear father either. Do promise me you won’t hold this against her.’
‘Of course not,’ Vincent promised with all his customary gallantry. ‘I understand only too well how bereavement can affect the mind.’ He looked across at me, smiling confidently. ‘Now ma’am, let’s stop this nonsense, shall we.’
‘Yes, you would like that, wouldn’t you,’ I countered, icily calm. ‘You once told me you couldn’t stand the sight of blood, which meant you needed someone to carry out the murders for you. A man who could also masquerade as Piers.’ Vincent gave a loud despairing groan, which I ignored.
‘When you heard of Giles’s betrothal, you had to stop him getting married and producing an heir, or you would never become Mr Saxborough of Ledstone Place. Piers agreed to do his part so that he could assist those cut-throats governing France, and then you had the good fortune to meet William Arnold’s brother-in-law, John Delafield in America. Finding he corresponded with the Arnolds, you introduced Piers to him in February, stating you would both be touring the southern states before returning to England in the summer. To ensure he would mention you in his letters, you bumped into him several times, both then and in late June. Indisputable proof that you could not have been in England when the murders took place. And, by inference, that gave Piers an alibi too.’
I took a deep breath, as what I had to say next would distress my godmother. ‘You and Piers probably did leave New York together, but he sailed home in February, no doubt under another name, while you toured the south. And following your orders, he murdered your brother.’
A strangled cry escaped Marguerite’s lips, and she fell back in a swoon. Lucie and my aunt rushed to her aid, but Vincent barely glanced at her. It was so unlike him to ignore her distress, I knew he must be badly rattled. He hid it well, however, answering me with a languid, ‘What a vivid imagination you have to be sure, ma’am.’
With my godmother still in a faint, I hurried on, hoping to spare her the ordeal of hearing how her husband had died. ‘Everyone thought it was an accident, for that was how it looked, even to me. But your brother was an expert horseman. He didn’t rush the schooling of new horses, and would never have jumped the east gate on a nervous young animal, bought three days before. That’s what first made me suspicious.’
‘Really, Lady Drusilla, this is quite absurd. How else could----’
‘I believe the gate was open and Piers stretched something across it - probably a rope.’ Again his eyes flickered. ‘And he closed the gate afterwards to make it look like an accident.’ If the fall hadn’t broken Cuthbert’s neck, I was certain Piers would have instantly rectified the matter, but as Marguerite was coming round, I kept that thought to myself.
A hint of sarcasm entered his voice. ‘I suppose Piers single-handedly murdered Thomas and his son too, and stole the Saxborough ring.’ At the mention of young Tom I looked at him with such loathing he lowered his eyes.
‘French smugglers were paid to do it,’ I said, almost choking over the words. ‘It’s my belief you meant to use the ring and Tom’s penknife to make it appear Giles had murdered them. Then Piers learnt from his revolutionary friends that Giles had rescued my uncle from prison, and you had a much better idea. If Piers could get Giles to France, he’d face the guillotine for such a crime. No-one could blame you for his death, and you would inherit the estates, which has been your aim all along.’
A faint smile twisted Vincent’s lips, and he inquired in amused fashion, ‘Is there anything else? Could you not find a way to blame me for the bad harvest, or the weather?’
Marguerite, listening dumbfounded and white-faced, finally found her voice. ‘Drusilla, I do not believe Vincent would harm Giles. Or anyone else.’
‘No?’ I smiled grimly. ‘W
ho do you think killed Piers?’
Aghast, Marguerite burst out, ‘No, Drusilla. Not his own son---’
Gently I reminded her that the man we knew as Piers wasn’t his son. ‘Once Giles was on the boat bound for France, Vincent had no further need of Piers.’
A muffled sob escaped Lucie, but she leapt up and faced Vincent, her eyes blazing. ‘Drusilla is right, and all the time you pretended to be my friend.’
He held out his hand to her. ‘My dear child-----’
Lucie hissed, ‘You won’t inherit Ledstone. If Giles dies, I’ll shoot you myself.’
‘My dear girl, it was Piers who-----’
‘Piers put Giles on the boat,’ I cut in, ‘but you planned it all. Piers wasn’t capable of inventing the devious schemes you contrived.’
He still did not appear discomforted. And I knew why. A court might agree that Vincent’s letter proved Piers was an imposter; and Captain Kettlewell’s evidence would show Piers had not returned to England with Vincent. Which suggested a conspiracy of some sort, but there wasn’t one shred of actual proof connecting either of them with the murders.
Last night, I’d hoped, with the help of Mr Arnold’s men, to catch Piers in the act of forcing Giles onto a boat bound for France. Evidence no court could dismiss. Piers, once arrested, would unquestionably have implicated Vincent. And I would have succeeded too, if Giles hadn’t locked me in the boathouse.
Now, if Giles died on the guillotine, Vincent would inherit Ledstone Place and its estates. For, how could I prove he was guilty? The men who could provide the evidence were all dead. Piers. Almost certainly Wistow, the valet. And the Gosport man.
The purpose of the Gosport man had puzzled me at first. He hadn’t told me the name of the Englishman who’d hired him, only the date he’d been paid. The fifteenth of September. A day when Vincent, Piers and Mr Reevers were at Ledstone. Giles, as I well knew, had been in France then. The subtlety of giving me a date, rather than Giles’s name, showed a far greater intelligence than the Gosport man possessed. When I thought about it all later on, I recognised the hand behind it.
Once the Gosport man had done his part, Piers killed him, probably when he and Vincent were supposedly visiting friends near Brading. When Piers had fulfilled his purpose, Vincent couldn’t let him live, for he knew everything.
I looked up to see Vincent watching me, the faintest suggestion of smugness in his smile. He knew I couldn’t prove it, and that I didn’t know what to do next. If Giles was in France now, as seemed all too likely, he could expect a swift trial and execution. All Vincent had to do was wait.
CHAPTER THIRTYEIGHT
My aunt and cousin were too devastated to speak, and even my godmother was quiet. My uncle stood by the window, staring out, while Mr Reevers kept his eyes on Vincent, his face grave and alert. I still didn’t know if Mr Reevers was involved in the murders in any way.
No-one spoke; in fact, it was so quiet that when the door suddenly burst open, it startled us all. Mr Reevers swung round, the others raised despairing eyes, and I turned to see a highly dishevelled looking gentleman striding in. One of medium height and angelic features.
‘Giles!’ chorused Marguerite and Lucie together. As they both rushed to hug him, Vincent’s blue eyes flash murderously.
Mr Reevers moved swiftly towards him, saying to me, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see he does not leave this room.’ I nodded and turned away, utterly unable to speak, for I had seen the thankfulness and joy on his face when Giles walked in, and the relief of knowing which side he was on, along with the fact that Giles really was safe at last, completely overwhelmed me.
Silent tears streamed down my cheeks, and taking out my handkerchief, I dried them with trembling fingers. It was some moments before I felt able to face them all again, and when I did so, I saw Mr Arnold standing in the doorway. Realising he had brought Giles home, I pulled myself together and went to greet him.
He bowed. ‘I don’t wish to intrude, ma’am. I just wanted to ensure you were all safe.’
‘As you see.’ I smiled a little shakily. ‘Now you have returned Giles to us, I do not think we have anything further to fear. But will you not come in? I have so much I wish to ask you.’
Thus, while Marguerite and Lucie, aided by my aunt and uncle, fussed over Giles, I sat in a quiet corner of the room with Mr Arnold, listening to him relate, in his modest way, how his men had prevented Giles from being taken to France. ‘The day you told me Vincent Saxborough was behind the murders, I was greatly shocked. He always seemed such a charming gentleman.’ Glancing at Vincent, he shook his head in disbelief. ‘To think of the terrible fate he planned for his own nephew ----’
‘He deceived us all, Mr Arnold. But tell me, are all your men safe?
He nodded. ‘Yes, I’m thankful to say. I gave Sarson, the captain of the cutter, strict orders to patrol the coast from Dittistone to Hokewell, as you suggested, but what with last night being as black as pitch, and the Frenchies hoisting dark sails, they almost slipped through our fingers. Their boat was making its way out to sea before my men spotted them. It was quite a chase, Sarson said, and our cutter didn’t catch them until sometime after midnight, but they gave up without a struggle.’
‘Without a fight?’ I repeated in surprise.
‘The French were heavily outnumbered,’ he explained with a smile. ‘Sarson and his crew reached Cowes around dawn, and very thankful I was to see Giles Saxborough safely back on our Island, I can tell you.’
‘As we all are, believe me,’ I said, glancing at the happy faces around Giles. ‘I am most grateful to you, Mr Arnold. We shall always be in your debt.’
‘My goodness, ma’am,’ he protested, embarrassed. ‘I did nothing, except give the orders. And my men did their duty, as I expected.’
Giles, emerging from being hugged by those who loved him, demanded, ‘Where’s Piers? I saw him on the beach before I was thrown into the hold. But he wasn’t on the boat when the revenue cutter stopped us.’
‘Dead,’ Mr Reevers declared. ‘Vincent shot him. He hatched the whole plan too. The murders, everything.’ And explained briefly why Piers could not be Vincent’s real son.
Giles stared at him, utterly stunned. ‘That I had not suspected. Frankly I thought Piers arrived here from America, heard I’d rescued Lucie’s father, and saw a golden opportunity to snatch Ledstone for Vincent and himself. These revolutionaries preach equality, but given the chance they are as greedy as anyone else.’
Mr Reevers said, ‘It was Lady Drusilla who fathomed it all out.’
‘So I understand from Mr Arnold.’ Giles turned to me, smiling. ‘I owe you a great deal, Drusilla. I should have listened to you.’
Such an admission silenced me for a moment and Vincent muttered, all pretence gone now, ‘I congratulate you, ma’am. You appear to have thought of everything.’
I asked curiously, ‘Why did you do it, Mr Saxborough?’
‘Why? Oh that’s quite simple.’ His eyes glittered with bitterness. ‘Cuthbert refused to acknowledge my wife and son. Even when they became desperately ill, he ignored all my pleas for help. Money could have saved them.’ Vincent removed a speck of snuff from his sleeve. ‘As it was, they died of the fever, and I swore that, one day, I would take my revenge. That I would own Ledstone Place and its estates.’
‘So,’ I said, ‘I take it your brother didn’t set you up in business.’
Vincent’s lip curled. ‘Not he.’
‘You told Mrs Saxborough----’
He shrugged. ‘I wanted her to think I was grateful to Cuthbert, and therefore not after Ledstone. There never was a gaming club. The truth is, six months after my wife died I met a rich widow and married her. She died some years ago and------’ Seeing our expressions, he held up his hands in protest. ‘Of natural causes, I swear. Piers was her son. I never did take to the boy, but believe me, killing is not in my line. I had to consume a considerable quantity of brandy before I could shoot him.’ He shuddered. ‘Never again.’
Mr Reevers ground his teeth. ‘You won’t get the chance. It’s the gallows for you.’ He turned to Giles. ‘Where shall I put him? In the cellar?’
‘No, really, Giles,’ Vincent protested. ‘I’m too old to be stuck in some damp, cold cellar for hours on end.’
I urged strongly, ‘I think the cellar would be the ideal quarters for a man whose sole aim was to take your place, Giles.’
‘But what could I do now, Lady Drusilla?’ Vincent protested. ‘If I shot Giles, which I promise you I could not, for I really rather like him, everyone would know it was me. What would I gain?’
I looked at Giles. ‘Vincent also tried to kill me on two occasions.’
Vincent shuddered. ‘Not I, Lady Drusilla. That was Piers, I assure you.’
‘He may have carried out the attacks,’ I retorted softly, ‘but you told him how to go about it.’
‘I agree with Lady Drusilla,’ Mr Reevers said. ‘The cellar it must be.’
Giles nodded decisively. ‘Very well. We’ll deal with him later.’
Throwing up his hands in capitulation, Vincent begged, ‘I trust I won’t be left there to starve. I have not yet had breakfast and-----’
Giles stared at him. ‘My father, brother and nephew are dead, and you tried to have me killed, and I’m supposed to care whether you starve or not?’ He shook his head in disbelief. Then, observing Vincent’s dejected face, gave a harsh laugh and shrugged. ‘I’ll see Parker brings you something.’
When he tugged the bell-pull, Parker appeared so quickly, I suspected him of hovering outside. Giles said, ‘Parker, it seems Mr Vincent organised my trip to France last night.’
‘So I understand, sir,’ he said gravely.
‘You know about it already do you, you old reprobate. Tell me, how is it that the servants always know everything that goes on in this house?’