Laura almost laughed aloud. Even the obligation to rescue such a beautiful lady seemed not to deter the man from his urgent desire to be on his way.
“Won’t you step down, madam,” he said, opening the door for her.
With a great show of relief, the countess accepted his assistance to alight, turning to say to Laura, “Pray accompany me, dear friend.”
Laura obliged her and found her arm firmly taken by Lady Clarydon, who drew her towards the other carriage, while Elspeth looked crossly after them.
“’Tis only the mistress’s waiting woman inside,” said Mr. George.
The countess looked into the carriage. “Pardon me, my dear, will you share your carriage with us?”
“My mistress will be very angry if I do,” said the woman. “Can your coachman not move your carriage aside for us to pass?”
“I fear not—if the carriage should tip over altogether, we can none of us go anywhere.”
She looked around inside the carriage, seeing a large hamper, cloaks and a travel case pushed under the seat. “I see you are equipped for a journey. How shockingly I have inconvenienced you!”
“Lady Clarydon, someone comes!” said Laura.
From a little lane, fifty yards from the gate, there appeared a lady wearing a straw bonnet, and rather red-faced in her haste. She hesitated only for a moment on seeing the two ladies next to her chaise before hurrying over.
“Have I the honour of addressing Mrs. Whichale?” said the countess.
The lady made a sound surprisingly like a groan. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I am of little interest to you, madam, but this is Miss Morrison.”
The blood drained away from Mrs. Whichale’s cheeks and she began to sway. Laura caught her as she fell almost into a faint.
The countess opened the door of the carriage and Mr. George, helped by the maid, placed the lady on the seat. Laura looked at Mrs. Whichale, her face pale with drops of perspiration on her forehead, her bosom heaving. Was this weak, frightened creature responsible for all that had befallen her?
After an application of smelling salts to her nose, Mrs. Whichale opened her eyes. Her gaze wandered for a moment, before fixing on Laura’s face.
“You are Miss Morrison?” she said.
“I am, and I cannot say it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Mrs. Whichale reached out her hand, but Laura turned her head.
“You cannot bring yourself to touch me,” Mrs. Whichale said bitterly. “It was not my doing—I swear I did not write the letter.”
“Are you well enough to travel, ma’am?” Mr. George said. “We can turn and go the long way.”
Mrs. Whichale looked at Laura in desperate appeal. Her plump face seemed wasted, fallen into sick creases. “I told him we were happy as we were before.”
Laura looked from the lady to the maid, who knelt on the floor of the carriage, fumbling in a bag for a restorative.
The maid slowly raised her eyes—guilt and terror mirrored in them. “The master made me do it!” she said. “I sat up all night practising the hand.”
“You all but destroyed my life,” said Laura.
“He’d have dismissed me without a character.”
“Could you not let morality guide you?” Even as she said it, Laura knew the futility of such an argument. Without a character reference, this maid would be unlikely to ever find another place; honesty would most likely have been rewarded with poverty.
“’Twas but a love letter, of sorts.”
“You must know that forgery is a capital offence!”
The woman put her hand to her throat and moaned.
There came a whimper from Mrs. Whichale. “The disgrace!” she said.
The maid began to rock to and fro, the bag clutched in her arms like a baby.
Laura stepped back. “Let them go.”
“As you say, my dear.” The countess took Laura’s arm and they moved to the side of the road. At once, Mr. George slammed the door shut and climbed up onto the box.
The coachman turned the carriage and drove it back to the gate, where they waited for a moment.
For whom do they wait? thought Laura. Did they plan to aid the villian’s escape? she wondered. Of course! “No!” cried Laura. “They wait for their master! They shall not all get away.”
As she rushed across the road, a shot rang out, echoing across the still valley. Both teams of horses neighed and reared up.
Mr. Whichale’s coachman cracked the whip.
The horses strained forward and the chaise was off, rapidly gaining speed as it disappeared down the road.
The reverberations of the shot died away. Laura still stood, shocked, as the dust swirled about her. She was dimly aware of screams from the barouche, and the incredulous laughter of the countess. A horseman cantered out of the gate and into the road, hesitating a second to spot the escaping carriage, before heading off down the road after it, bouncing in the saddle.
Slowly Laura approached the gate, numb with apprehension.
“Laura!” cried Elspeth from the window of the barouche. “My brother! Cousin Richard!”
Laura scarcely heard her, walking across the road in a daze. I was never prepared for violence, she thought.
She heard no further sound from the house—the thick garden wall ensured that. She began to run towards the gate, not hearing the other ladies calling out to her to wait.
Edward dead? Richard wounded? Or …? Every possibility was horrible. She could not bear the loss of her dream of love. Always so much stood in their way. It was never meant to be, or they would not have lost sight of each other in the first place. She saw that now. It seemed that fate dictated that Mr. Templeton now lay dying.
CHAPTER 44
WHILE LAURA AND THE COUNTESS parleyed with Mrs. Whichale, the gentlemen had rushed back to the library. Mr. Grahame tried the handle of the library door. Locked!
“Open up, Mr. Whichale!” he shouted, but no reply was heard from inside the room. Mr. Templeton and Edward put their shoulders to the door to burst it open.
All four ran in. Mr. Whichale was not at his desk but halfway through the open window. They rushed at him and he looked back over his shoulder, turning.
“Take care! He’s armed!” yelled Grahame.
They froze, in the centre of the room, at the sight of the pistol. Mr. Whichale looked desperately from one to another, settling his eyes resentfully upon Mr. Templeton, and seemed to choose his target. He turned the weapon.
“We are four to your one, sir,” said Edward.
“You will surely hang if you commit murder,” Grahame said.
“I hang, in any case,” said Whichale.
He fired. As the echoes bounced from the walls, Edward heard the thump of a body falling to the floor, followed by the rumble of wheels on the road. He leapt forward.
“Wait, sir!” said the magistrate, but the captain seized the gunman’s wrist, dragging him back into the room. Whichale grabbed at Edward’s face with his other hand, clawing at his skin. Edward was too strong for him. He jerked Whichale’s arm up sharply in the air. Whichale flailed at the captain’s jaw with his free hand but one more wrench on his arm caused the pistol to drop to the floor.
“Hold him, sir!” said the magistrate, as Edward forced Whichale into a chair.
Mr. Grahame climbed out of the window and raced across to the gate.
Down the road, Mr. Grahame saw the constable pulling his horse up, turning at the sound of the shot. “Go after them, man,” shouted the magistrate, pointing. The horseman nodded and took off again.
It was then that Mr. Grahame saw the lady at the gate.
“Miss Morrison! Wait—pray do not go in.”
However, Laura sped past him and halted briefly in the court, listening. She heard voices from the side of the house and ran in the direction of the sounds. Through the open casement, she saw a gentleman of middle years collapsed in a chair. Before him stood her brother—unharmed! H
e turned, staring at her in amazement. “Laura?”
“Thank God,” she said.
Over by the door, Sir Richard stood, blinking. It was just as she had thought. Her brother and cousin were thankfully safe, but Mr. Templeton? She shivered, lowering her gaze to the floor. In the corner behind her brother and to his left, she saw a pair of boots, toes pointed upward. She gasped, and her eyes flew past the top of the old-fashioned boots, to a rusty black coat. An old servant was lying on the floor—not dead, it seemed, but in a faint. Sir Richard was now kneeling beside him, slapping his cheeks to revive him.
What of Mr. Templeton? She looked to the side of the room, and saw him pointing a pistol at the miscreant. Alive!
Joy lit her face, shimmering in her glass-green eyes—joy such as could not escape his notice. His look in reply was an instant of dark-eyed passion. Just as quickly, he turned back to his charge.
“Laura, I beg you to return to the carriage,” said Edward. “You are not alone?”
“I am not alone, and I will go—Elspeth is beside herself,” she said.
She ran back out of the gate, to find the countess standing in the road, poised between curiosity and fear. Reassured by Laura’s happy look, she clapped her hands.
“Is anyone murdered? Is there much blood? Tell all, my dear,” she said, putting her arm around Laura’s waist.
Laura was too happy to do other than smile. She went to the carriage window, seeing Elspeth in genuine anxiety.
“Laura, you are safe! What of my brother?”
“They are all unharmed—all of our gentlemen are safe,” she said.
“Quite all?” said Mrs. Bell.
“Every last one,” said Laura.
The magistrate hurried back into the house and took over the situation.
“That shot was a signal to your coachman to carry your wife to safety,” he said.
Whichale gave him a sour smile of triumph. “Your man will never catch her. My coachman knows every turn in every lane hereabouts.”
“We shall see. Now—the document, Mr. Whichale? Where is it?”
Whichale looked over to see Moreley still sitting forlornly on the floor.
“You are safe, Moreley,” said Whichale. “Show them.”
Sir Richard helped the old man to rise. “Are you well enough to lead us there?”
Moreley nodded.
Leaving the captain standing guard over Mr. Whichale, the other men followed the servant upstairs and into the master bedroom.
“The same room,” said Mr. Templeton.
An enormous old oaken closet stood against the wall. “It’s a’fallen behind the closet, sirs,” he said.
“Fallen, you say?” said the magistrate.
Moreley was wringing his hands in anxiety. “’Twere all on my account—the master tried to protect me rights.”
“From what?”
“Old master always promised me the cottage at Lane End, when I were too old to work.”
“And?”
“He must of forgot to put it in his will. ’Twere on the day he died, he writ a new one.”
“A new will, you say? Was he in his right mind?”
“On my sacred oath, sir, he was. The physician was with him at the end—he’ll tell you how sharp was old Mr. Whichale to the very last.”
“How came Mr. Templeton to be called in?”
“Old master asked for his attorney. New master sent for Mr. Templeton, instead, to witness the will. He forgot as I must not be witness.”
“You witnessed the signing of the new will, which gave you use of the cottage and an annuity?”
Moreley nodded miserably.
“Mr. Templeton went downstairs, and new master—he weren’t master then for old master were still alive, only sleeping—new master came in. He were standing just there, by the closet.”
“What happened next?” asked the magistrate.
“He said, quiet like, ‘Good God, were you a witness? The law will have you.’”
“The heir could have grounds to claim influence and contest the bequest, if you were a witness,” Mr Grahame said. He saw that Moreley did not comprehend him. “What followed?”
“He were waving his arm, like this, for he were worried.” The servant swept his arm across the top of the cabinet. “Will was a’knocked back and went behind. My master said best for me if it disappears.”
“So your master hid the new will?”
“’Twere an accident—I tried to remind him about it later but …”
The magistrate rolled his eyes. He pulled the bell rope. “No one sought to retrieve the document?”
“I didna’ dare by myself.”
“It’s as well you did not destroy it.”
“We got nowhere to go. Me savings are a’gon on medicine for Mrs. Moreley. Weren’t dishonest really for old master wanted it that way.”
“Let us see, Moreley.”
A footman entered and helped them pull the cabinet away from the wall. A sheet of parchment flopped over into the dust. The magistrate reached into the space and picked it up, blowing the dirt away. He read aloud:
In the Name of God, Amen.
I, Samuel Frederick Whichale, gentleman, of the Parish of Saint Stephen, in the village …
His bushy eyebrows were drawn together as he skimmed the rest of the opening statement. He ran his eyes over the first of the articles, shaking his head; then read it aloud.
I give and bequeath my estate at Longpan, near Axminster, comprising of Longpan House, four farms, the row of cottages in Lane’s End, Longpan, and all the income there from, unto my great-nephew …
Mr. Grahame looked around at them all before continuing.
Benjamin Adam Reece, grandson of my sister, Mrs. Charles Reece, nee Anna Jane Whichale, of Malton, Yorkshire.
CHAPTER 45
ONCE MRS. EVANS HAD SATISFIED herself about the safety of her relations, and the countess had reconciled herself to the living state of the others, her ladyship suggested they partake of a little nuncheon. Not for the first time, Laura wondered how the countess kept her trim figure.
The barouche was moved to the side of the road, and a blanket spread upon a stretch of grass. The ladies sat on the blanket, well wrapped in coats and shawls, and passed the time in finishing off the contents of the picnic basket.
“I hope a certain gentleman did not see you run in so desperately,” said Elspeth.
“I rather think he did,” said Laura, her lips parting in a smile. She accepted a glass of wine, poured from the countess’s flask.
Elspeth brushed irritably at the fringes of her shawl. “Well … you are proved correct, Laura, and I hope you are satisfied.”
“I am truly vindicated, Elspeth. Pardon me if I display a little triumph, which I feel I deserve after the treatment to which I have been subjected these long weeks.”
“I never meant to wrong you, dearest. Everything I did was for love.” She nibbled on a piece of cake.
Love for whom? thought Laura. A memory returned of Elspeth as a little girl, throwing her arms around her sister’s neck and covering her face with wet kisses. She loved me then, Laura thought. Perhaps she loves me still, in some strangely limited manner of her own.
“Tell us what dreadful deed has been committed, Miss Morrison,” said Lady Clarydon.
“I await the result of the magistrate’s investigations to confirm my little theory.”
“Pray tell—we all long to know.” The countess gave the sulky Elspeth a little nudge. “Take heart, my dear. See how well it all ends.”
Elspeth forced a smile.
Laura thought for a moment, taking a sip of wine. “The seed was planted at Oakmont, when I was accused of madness in believing Mr. Templeton to be a real person. Despite all the evidence, it was only when odd things began to happen at Oakmont too that I wondered if I had taken leave of my senses.” She looked pointedly at Elspeth, who adopted an air of innocence.
“How terrible, dearest sister!” she said.
“It now seems that a criminal conspiracy led people to deny the truth. The ostler, Tom, the servant at the Charmouth Inn, the Whichales—all colluded either for reward or from fear. Mr. Whichale is at the centre of it all, I am sure.”
“But what is your theory, Miss Morrison?” said the countess. “End my misery!”
Laura bit on her cake and ate the piece thoughtfully, before saying, “It harks back to my meeting with Mr. Reece at the Assembly in Lyme. Gossip had it that he was a great favourite with his rich, dying uncle and was sure to inherit the estate.”
“Mr. Whichale!” said Mrs. Bell.
“Indeed, Mrs. Bell! You recall our meeting with Mr. Reece, Countess?”
“A pleasing young man!”
“Yes. I imagine his family sent him to Mr. Whichale in the hopes of advantage, for he is very amiable. When I encountered him again the other day, one of my first thoughts was that he did not inherit after all. I hadn’t even given him or his possible fortune a thought since I left Lyme.”
“You cannot mean a forged will also!” said the countess.
“Yes—or a new one suppressed. When I learned that Mr. Reece’s valuable commission in the Royal Artillery had been purchased by a fond uncle, I thought how well blessed he was with fond uncles.”
“You think his Uncle Whichale wished him out of the way?” said the countess.
“Yes, and perhaps he hoped to disarm suspicion with his generosity.”
“That makes good sense,” said Mrs. Bell.
“All fell into place when Mr. Templeton said he had witnessed a document for old Mr. Whichale.”
“It could have been any piece of business that he wished tied up at the end,” said Mrs. Bell.
“I could not help jumping to the conclusion that it was a will.”
“Men do sometimes worry about unfinished business matters on their deathbed,” pursued Mrs. Bell.
“Yes, indeed, they do. Yet the relations in most cases do not set a conspiracy in train.”
The Imaginary Gentleman Page 34