by Alys Clare
Nicolaus Quinlie’s body lay on the trestle where Jeromy’s had lain before him. I stepped forward, pushed back my sleeves and began my examination of the body.
After a while I sensed Theo’s restlessness. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked quietly.
‘I can’t say I liked the man,’ he replied, ‘but it doesn’t seem right, him lying there with that great stone stuck in his mouth. It looks so … uncomfortable.’ He smiled briefly as if at his own sentiment. ‘Can’t you remove it?’
‘No.’ I demonstrated, taking hold of the stone and trying to move it. It didn’t shift, being set firm in the jaws like steel in a stone. ‘The body takes on a rigour after death and, until it passes, the sinews lock up tight.’
Theo leaned forward to look. ‘How long will that take?’
‘It varies, but it won’t be before a day or two. Its presence, however, serves as an indication of how long a body’s been dead, since it sets in a few hours after life is extinguished. In this case, I’d say Quinlie died late last night.’
‘Do you think the same hand killed him as stuck that blade into Jeromy Palfrey?’
‘I can’t say.’ I stood back, frowning. ‘I had been thinking that perhaps that was the case: Quinlie wanted to rid himself of the threat that Jeromy posed and so paid his mysterious foreigner to kill him, then – let’s say, for example, because Quinlie refused to pay him as well or as swiftly as he’d promised – the killer has reason to murder his employer as well.’
‘That’s plausible,’ Theo said. I didn’t answer. ‘Isn’t it?’ he prompted.
‘It is,’ I agreed, ‘but something tells me it didn’t happen like that. Jeromy’s murder was wild and savage; the killer was out of control when he struck. Beside himself with anger. Afraid, perhaps. Panicked. But this …’ I touched the stone again. ‘This suggests to me a cool head. Go to see your victim late at night, when you’re unlikely to be disturbed. Gain his confidence. Then tie him to his chair, make him totally helpless, and tell him what you’re about to do. Only when you’ve caused him exquisite agony – prolonged, perhaps – do you strike the skilled and merciful blow that ends his life.’ I turned to face him. ‘In short, the first was a crime of the heart, the second one of the head.’
Back at Rosewyke, I told Celia, as gently and as diplomatically as I could, what had happened. I hated having to do so; hated having to raise once more the ghost of her beloved dead husband, just when she seemed to be starting to recover a little.
As I’d feared, even as I was speaking I saw the colour leave her face. She sank down onto the settle by the open window, and I thought she was trembling.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she said quietly, her voice soft and controlled. But then her composure broke. Tears welling in her eyes, she said, ‘Oh, Gabe, what am I to do? I thought it was over!’ Then she was weeping in earnest, hands over her face, shoulders shaking, harsh sobs loud in the rural peace.
I went to sit beside her and put my arms round her, and she buried her face against my chest. ‘I know, dear heart, how fervently you wish to put your sorrow behind you. Not that you’ll ever forget him!’ Oh, God, how tactless I’d been! ‘You loved him so much, and that will never change, but you are young still, and growing in loveliness, and Jeromy would not wish you waste your life. Why, only yesterday I was thinking I would suggest that we travel together, just you and I, and pay a visit to London. You would love it, Celia, it’s a city that has to be seen to be believed, and …’ But she was stiff and unyielding in my arms and I knew she wasn’t listening. Hearing my words, perhaps, but they had no meaning for her. So I hugged her more tightly, dropping a gentle kiss on her soft, fragrant hair.
Presently she was sufficiently recovered to sit up, wipe the tears from her face and turn to look at me. ‘So, what have you and the coroner decided about this new death?’ she asked. There was a cold, brittle tone in her voice that I couldn’t recall ever having heard before. ‘Were the two victims killed by the same man?’
I studied her, but her stony expression gave nothing away. She is fighting to control her grief and her horror, I thought. I knew I’d had no choice but to tell her, but, in revealing the news of Quinlie’s death, of course it meant rekindling all the terrible emotions that had torn through her after Jeromy’s.
Best, I decided, to employ the same cool logic that was serving her.
‘It seems unlikely,’ I replied. I explained, as well as I could without going into too much detail, how one killing appeared to be the result of passion, fear and fury, the other a controlled execution. ‘One man can, of course, kill two different men in different ways,’ I went on. If, as we’d began to conclude, Jeromy had been murdered by a killer hired by Quinlie, and he’d then killed Quinlie for some reason, his mood could well have been different when carrying out the two acts. The first would have been paid employment, the second something he did on his own behalf, and …
No. That was not reasonable. If it had been that way, then the heart and head elements would have been the other way round: he’d have killed Jeromy as a paid assassin, coolly and efficiently, and reserved his passion for the employer who had somehow raised his fury.
I met Celia’s red-rimmed eyes and shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ I confessed.
She nodded. After a moment, she got up and began to pace the room. I had a sudden, frightening sense of anticipation: she wanted to tell me something, and I didn’t think I was going to like it.
I’ve always been close to my sister. Our love for each other is profound, and, although we are very different in character, in habits, in our likes and dislikes and in virtually every other way, there has always been deep understanding between us. I have frequently thought she has acted unwisely, and I dare say she would say the same of me. On occasions, we have known even though apart when the other was troubled or in danger. Quite frequently, I’ve been thinking of her at the very moment she’s been turning her horse into the track leading off the road and preparing to ride up to the house. Possibly it’s the same for other siblings; I can’t say. But I don’t share these things with my brother Nathaniel.
So Celia paced, trying to force herself to speak, and I sat waiting.
‘You say – you all say again and again how much I loved him, and how blissfully happy we were,’ she began.
‘Yes, of course, we know full well that—’
She shot me a silencing look. ‘But you should know that quite a lot of acquaintances thought that Jeromy and I weren’t happy, and gossiped among themselves about frequent and dramatic rows,’ she went on, her voice shaking.
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. It went against everything I’d believed; every proof I thought I’d seen, in the course of the last two years, of a happy marriage.
I said, ‘And were these acquaintances correct?’
There was a long pause. Then she nodded.
‘Why did you argue?’ O merciful Lord, I was praying, let it be something trivial, something I can brush aside and that won’t spoil this cosy image I had made of my sister’s life!
But she said, ‘What do you think? We rowed over money: always, always that’s how it would start. There would be bills that couldn’t be paid, and dangerous-looking men coming to the door and demanding to see him, and I had to go and be smiling and polite while he hid, shaking and trembling, and left me to face them. And he’d disappear for a day, two days at a time’ – she was talking swiftly now, well into her stride, as if, having held this in for so long, breaking her silence at last was like sluice gates opening on a mighty river – ‘swearing he’d come back with his purse full of gold, but of course he never did, because the only way he knew was gambling, and he was a rotten gambler.’ She gave a twisted smile. ‘He wasn’t really clever or perceptive or swift-thinking enough to be good at cards,’ she said softly. Then, her expression hardening again: ‘His friends all sided with him and said I was the one at fault, because I demanded too much of him. I was spoilt, and I’d been pampered by a fond and w
ealthy father—’
‘Father’s not wealthy and he never spoiled you!’ I protested.
‘I know, Gabe,’ she said wearily. ‘I’m telling you what Jeromy’s friends thought. Because they liked him – or they used to – it was easier to put the blame on me for expecting a level of comfort and luxury that a young man making his way in the world couldn’t provide.’ She looked at me, her eyes huge in her white face. ‘After he was dead, I – I thought perhaps I’d have a chance.’
‘A chance?’ I prompted when she didn’t continue. ‘To do what?’
‘Oh – to settle his debts, go through everything and discover where I stood, sell off some of the more outlandish things he’d bought to fill Ferrars and then maybe discover a simpler, wiser way of living.’ Her face twisted in a bitter smile. ‘Of course, I was still an innocent fool back then, and I had no idea how badly he had gone astray.’ Again she paused, and I had the strongest suspicion – more than that: it was a certainty – that we were coming to the kernel of what she wanted to tell me. ‘A part of me rejoiced that he was gone,’ she finally admitted in a small voice. ‘I didn’t think I could have gone on for much longer as we were, for the love seemed to have died, he was not the man I thought he was, and every day it was always money, money, money, and once he was dead I knew I’d be rid of all that, with no more—’ Abruptly she stopped. Her voice had risen so that she had almost been shouting, and the echo rang in the room.
‘Hush,’ I said gently.
She spun round to fix me with a furious stare. ‘Now you know what your sister really is like!’ she flashed. ‘Now you know her for the horrible creature she is! Her husband dead, and horribly so, and she was glad!’
‘Do not let this guilt eat at you,’ I said. ‘You—’
I didn’t think she heard. ‘But, oh, God, it was hard,’ she whispered, ‘because I had to go on playing the part of the grief-stricken widow mourning the loss of the husband she’d adored, while all the time a tiny part of me wanted to dance because Jeromy was gone and safely in his grave, and everyone was quite sure they knew who had killed him.’ Her head drooped on her graceful neck. ‘But now you tell me Nicolaus Quinlie has been killed too, so things aren’t as simple as they appeared, and the whole business will have to be examined all over again.’
I hesitated. ‘It will,’ I agreed, ‘but I’m sure—’
She had resumed her pacing now, her footsteps a fast and furious rhythm on the wooden floorboards. ‘They’ll be casting round once more for someone to blame, and, oh, Gabe, I’m convinced all Jeromy’s friends who hated me and disapproved of me will get their heads together and—’
She stopped dead.
A growing sense of unreality overcame me as I watched her, unable to take my eyes off her. She ceased her pacing, and it seemed as if, one by one, her tense muscles relaxed. Her expression grew mild, and her lovely face creased into a smile. She took a long breath, then another. She reached down to pick up her work bag and then walked calmly towards the door.
‘But people always talk,’ she said mildly. ‘Now, Gabriel, I shall go to my room and finish a small sewing task until it is time for dinner.’ She gave me a polite little nod, and was gone.
I stared after her.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t understand my sister at all.
I sat and thought for a long time. I believed I knew what she’d been about to say, although my mind could scarcely accept it. She came down to join me for the midday meal, and we spoke of nothing but trivialities. I barely ate anything. If she noticed, she didn’t comment.
In the afternoon I sent for my horse. I wished I could have spoken to Theo, but under the circumstances his knowledge and advice were closed off to me. Instead I rode down to Tavy St Luke and sought out Jonathan Carew.
He was in his church, in the little vestry. ‘May I speak to you in confidence?’ I asked.
He smiled. ‘It is what people tend to do.’ Then, apparently picking up my mood, he said, ‘Unless it is some serious crime whose commission I may stop by speaking out, then what we say remains between us. Although this is not the confessional,’ he added. There was, I thought, a hint of warning in his eyes.
So I told him what Celia had said. And, crucially, what she hadn’t said. ‘She forced herself not to continue,’ I concluded, ‘but I am all but sure she was about to confess her fear that Jeromy’s friends will accuse her of wanting him dead. Not that she could have killed him,’ I added hurriedly, ‘for that wasn’t the work of a woman. But a woman can employ someone to do the job for her.’ I watched his still face, and his expression gave nothing away. ‘Surely nobody will take them seriously!’ I tried to laugh, as if at the absurdity of the very idea. ‘And would it not be slander to spread such untruths?’
Jonathan seemed to have to stir himself out of his thoughts before answering. ‘The offence of slander does indeed include perpetrating untrue derogative comments about a person,’ he agreed. ‘To put about that a widow had wished her spendthrift husband gone would, on the face of it, be dismissible as malicious gossip, whereas to suggest that she had been responsible for his death – by the engaging of a killer, for example – would indeed be slanderous, she being innocent of the accusation.’
‘Being innocent – of course she’s innocent!’ I protested. ‘She loved him very much! Their marriage was a great success!’
But had she loved him? I heard a voice inside my head demand. Or had his very nature killed that love? Hadn’t she told me that morning that love seemed to have died?
Jonathan watched me, a hint of compassion in his expression. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said after a while. ‘These friends of your late brother-in-law will be aware of the law, or so it is to be hoped, and with any luck what you and your sister fear will not happen.’
I prayed he was right.
‘I trust it is so,’ he added softly. He glanced up at me. ‘You know, I expect, what happens to a wife convicted of murdering her husband.’
I shook my head. He sighed, then told me.
‘The murder of a husband by his wife is petty treason, since it is an example of a superior being killed by a subordinate. High treason, of course,’ he added, ‘can only be committed against the sovereign. For a subordinate to kill a superior is regarded as betrayal, and it is this element that makes the crime more serious than ordinary murder, since subordinates are meant to revere and respect their superiors. For a servant to kill his master, or a clergyman to kill his prelate, would also be petty treason.’
I was deeply uneasy at his repetition of treason. ‘And what would the punishment be?’
He glanced at me, and I saw he was reluctant to answer. But he did. ‘A man would be drawn and hanged, but not, as with high treason, quartered. A woman would be burned at the stake.’ I gasped. ‘Sometimes,’ he hurried on, ‘more often than not, perhaps, a compassionate executioner might strangle the victim before the kindling is lit and the faggots pick up the flames.’
If he’d hoped by mentioning this to lessen the horror of what he’d just said, he didn’t succeed.
‘But sometimes he might not,’ I said softly.
He didn’t answer.
Then I thanked him and left.
I couldn’t let my sister suffer that fate; couldn’t let her as much as run the risk of it. I would protect her.
Whatever it took.
FOURTEEN
It was almost dark when I got back to Rosewyke. I hadn’t appreciated how late it was; the events of the day had obsessed me to the cost of virtually everything else.
I let Hal amble along, my mind busy, content to let him find his own way up the road and onto the track leading to the house. I wasn’t therefore paying nearly enough attention, which was why, when suddenly he shied, he very nearly shot me out of the saddle.
Then in the fading light I saw what he had seen.
A figure lay across the track, and another crouched over it. I swiftly dismounted and ran over, and realized that the larg
er figure – a man dressed in dark robes – had the head of the smaller figure – a girl, about fourteen, with shaggily cut hair and a ragged gown – in his lap. He was murmuring, beads and cross in one hand as with the other he gently stroked the wild, tangled hair off the girl’s forehead.
Not murmuring: praying.
His prayers were in Latin and they were not in any form that Jonathan Carew would have used.
Such was his absorption in the girl that he didn’t notice me until I was almost upon him, whereupon he gave a great start, muttering something that sounded like an apology. He resumed his praying, but now the words were ones that I heard quite frequently.
‘Is she dead?’ I knelt down beside him.
‘Very nearly,’ he whispered back. ‘Her spirit is – she gave me a sign that she—’ He broke off, and I sensed his fear.
‘It’s all right,’ I said very quietly. I guessed that, in the girl’s extremity of need, he had reverted to the religion in which he had grown up. To judge by the fluency of his praying, he might well have been a priest.
Now, when he was doing his utmost to help the dying girl’s soul, wasn’t the time to argue over whose religion was the right one.
I said, although I was sure from the sounds the girl was making and the great pool of blood soaking into the priest’s robe what the answer would be, ‘Is there nothing that can be done? I’m a physician.’ It sounded to my own ears as if I was boasting, suggesting I was a better judge of life and death than he, but in the circumstances I had no choice.
He shook his head.
I made a gesture as if to say, carry on.
He said, ‘Thank you.’ Then, switching back to Latin, he continued with his prayers. I watched as he touched the girl’s eyes, lips and hands with something from a tiny bottle; I guessed he was administering extreme unction.
Some time later he gently closed the girl’s wide eyes, laid her head gently on the ground and stood up. He was very thin and appeared tall. ‘She has gone,’ he said. ‘God rest her soul.’