Mists of Moorhead Manor

by Bancroft, Blair

  “Forgive me,” she murmured, shame-faced. “You are my true friend and would never betray me.”

  Except for not telling you your mother lies under a ton of earth and rock only a few feet behind the garden.

  I slammed the door on my inner voice, more than glad to have David reappear at that moment, ready to carry Vanessa down to supper.

  Two days later the Durrant family departed for their primary residence in Wiltshire. My emotions were strangely mixed. I took a quite improper pleasure at the sour looks on the faces of Lady Rothbury and Lady Daphne. Clearly, their hopes of announcing a betrothal before their departure had been balked yet again. I would, however, miss Lady Jocelyn’s sweet temper. And with Lord Norvelle departing at last, I realized we might never know if he was involved in the deaths of the four young women. Time would tell, I supposed. If there were no deaths during his absence . . .

  Not proper evidence, I knew. No magistrate would charge him on such a flimsy supposition. But I clung to my theory, for I would not allow it to be Hycliffe, Robert, Huntley, Kenrick, or David.

  Well . . . yes, it could be Hycliffe. If Robert was so certain his father had killed his mother—to the point of eschewing marriage—then it was likely the earl had confessed, and none of my fine theories were worth the powder to blow them up. And if he had killed two people, what were four more deaths, even though they were separated by a chasm of more than four years?

  I suspected Robert thought his father guilty of all six deaths. And if so, who could blame him for refusing to continue the blood line? But try as I would, beyond the earl’s eccentricity of being a recluse, I could find no sign of madness in him. Surely one moment of excessive passion was not madness . . .

  At dinner, with the table reduced to family only, not counting that interloper, Penny Ballantyne, I attempted to look at everyone through the eyes of a Doubting Thomas. An exercise in futility, I soon discovered. How could I possibly picture Robert strangling Mary Perkins, casting Nell Ridgeway off a cliff, beating Sal Billings to death, or drowning Megan Flaherty in a bog? It was unthinkable. The thought of Huntley as a killer, equally so. Kenrick exert himself to murder? Indeed not. David, “our Davy,” currently at his customary post flat up against a wall?

  Surely life could not be that cruel.

  As I applied myself to a fine roast of beef, I assured myself it was over. Lord Norvelle was gone, the deaths would cease. The next uproar would be Vanessa’s revelation . . . or would she and David simply fade away into the night?

  With what? Someone would have to support their elopement, for contrary to the stuff found in romantic novels, the hero and heroine must have money enough for a horse and carriage to enable their run for freedom, a roof over their heads, food to eat, passage to the United States. And money to survive until David could find a way to earn a living . . .

  What fools we all were. Robert’s pessimism, David’s as well, were not unjustified. They saw reality while Vanessa and I indulged in air-dreams. How could our sad state of affairs possibly come right?

  I sang melancholy songs in the drawing room that night, my gaze flicking from Robert to Vanessa to David to Lord Hycliffe and finding nothing but the masks they chose to present to the rest of us. Where to go from here? Or did I simply erase the past from mind and go forward, taking each day as it came? Waiting to see what would happen next? Who would die? Who would run mad? Who would run away?

  I had never thought myself a coward, but in that moment I was. I felt fear. A certainty of tragedy to come. And knew no way to stop it. Like a ship caught in a storm, I could not control what was to happen. I could only react and pray survival was possible.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Inevitably, with the rising of the sun comes optimism. I lingered in bed, manipulating my dreams until I convinced myself that if a person thought long and hard and looked for help in the right places, the doubtful, even the impossible, might yet come to be. Perhaps not my personal fantasies, I conceded, but somehow I would find a way to help Vanessa to hers. I was not, after all, penniless. Papa might not have been able to set me up with a lifetime competence, but I could spare enough for a post chaise and passage to the States. And perhaps Robert might be persuaded to help with more long-term expenses. Unless, of course, he was as horrified by the thought of a runaway marriage between Vanessa and a yeoman farmer as Lord Hycliffe would be.

  Once again my spirits were dashed down, and yet again I rallied. How could Robert not sympathize with the mismatched couple, when he knew so well the problems of loving where he should not? And, oh yes—I smiled as another thought struck me—surely discovering that his sister was mobile again would mellow his attitude to the point of contributing a substantial amount to set up the lovers in America.

  As I dressed and breakfasted, I was all eagerness, scarcely able to wait to ask Vanessa’s permission to discuss my idea with Robert. But when I entered Vanessa’s sitting room, the sound of raised voices greeted me. Though her tirades had become less frequent and far less extreme over the past few weeks, there could be no doubt she and David were quarreling with an intensity I had not seen before. For David, always reasonable, never raised his voice or varied his calm expression, even during those terrible days when Vanessa’s temper tantrums and fits of hysteria shook the whole house. But today a dark scowl distorted his handsome face, as they hovered in a far corner of the room—David looming over Vanessa who was standing, clutching the back of her chair, her whole body quivering with rage. Maud, eyes wide, a hand pressed to her mouth, stood with her back pressed to the window, as far from the two combatants as she could get. I hastened to join her.

  “What has happened?” I whispered.

  “I don’t know,” she wailed. “David said something that sent her into a fury, but I have no idea what. When I attempted to put an end to it, they both snarled at me!” she added, looking much put upon.

  Was it possible David was upset because Vanessa could walk. Surely not, when all our efforts had been bent to exactly that. Her mobility would make their emigration to the United States possible.

  I gasped as Vanessa’s hand rose, ready to strike. David seized it, bending it back to her side, and none too gently. I must do something . . . but what? If nothing else, my months at Moorhead Manor had taught me that David could be an implacable force, but what could they possibly find to quarrel about when their goal was finally in sight? Yes, money was a problem, but a mere bagatelle compared to getting Vanessa out of her wheeled chair. We had all worked so hard—this morning’s contretemps had to be a mere tempest in a teapot, nothing truly serious . . .

  But suddenly David was striding across the room, the fire in his blue eyes draining away to a cold so icy it chilled my soul. Goosebumps rose on my arms. “Walk with me,” he said, grabbing me by the hand. Startled but relieved to have the quarrel disrupted, I went with him readily enough. How could I not be curious about what had set them off? I also wanted to pursue the topic of taking Robert into our confidence. David would see that was the only way to bring the problem right. All would be well.

  We charged down two flights of narrow servants’ stairs, David never once letting go of my hand, then out through a side door on the ocean side of the house, where we came to a narrow path leading toward the cliffs. Panting slightly, I huffed, “David, you said, ‘Walk with me,’ not run!”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, and reduced his pace to a stride I could match, as long as I didn’t attempt to talk.

  There were roiling gray clouds gathering when we finally stood on the headland, not more than ten feet back from the edge of the precipice. Mists were beginning to whisper into life, rising off the sea, licking at the cliff face. David squeezed my hand so tight I feared the bones might break, then as if suddenly aware of what he was doing, he let go. I flexed my fingers but kept my eyes on his face as he stared out to sea, posed in an arrogant slouch not unlike the statue in the courtyard. All he needed was the slingshot. And less clothing.

  “David,” I bur
st out, “I shall ask Robert to help. I can convince him, I know I can.”

  “Help what?” he returned, a question which made no sense at all.

  So I switched topics. “I thought you would be so pleased by Vanessa’s progress. What could you have to quarrel about?”

  “You truly think it’s going to happen, don’t you?” he said, still looking out at the white-capped waves far below. “That Lady Vanessa Wetherington of Moorhead Manor and Mr. David Tremaine of Exmoor, North Devon, are going to make a runaway marriage and live happily ever after in our rebellious colonies.” He made a rude noise. “Believe me, you are more likely to be Countess of Hycliffe than Vanessa, Mrs. David Tremaine.”

  “But you can!” I insisted. “You are so capable, David—”

  He swung round to face me and my statuesque Biblical hero had become the Devil Incarnate, his face transformed into a mask so menacing I took a step back, my eyes widening in disbelief. “You scheming little bitch,” he said quite evenly. “Everything was fine until you came along, constantly meddling, seeing more than you should. Tempting me with what might have been. If only . . .” His powerful hands flexed at his sides, as if they could scarcely wait to fasten around my throat.

  I took another step back, and he laughed. Not our David’s usual hearty laughter but a horrid sound that rose eerily above the crash of the waves on the rocks below.

  “Emigrate to the Americas.” He shook his head. “What a pretty picture you painted. I almost believed it. But you couldn’t rest—you had to uncover all our secrets, until our souls were laid bare, flayed alive by your inquisitive nature. I could see it coming—our dear Penny asking questions, ticking possible murderer suspects off on her fingers. Leaving me with nowhere to run.”

  I had to keep him talking—surely Maud, if not Vanessa, would send someone chasing after us. “You have not said what you quarreled about.”

  “The foolishness of thinking we could actually make a runaway match, the futility of it all. I liked Vanessa as an invalid, you know. It suited me to wait on her hand and foot—”

  “For you could always take your pleasure elsewhere.”

  David offered me a twisted smile that plunged my heart to my toes. A final confirmation of guilt, as much as I longed to deny it. “Oh yes,” he agreed softly, “there was always that.”

  “Until some of them said no.”

  “Oh no,” he purred, “they never said no. But sometimes things got out of hand, and then there were the times, like our deal Sal, when I simply enjoyed beating her bloody.”

  The earth stood still—lowering skies, the screech of gulls, the pounding surf, all went away, leaving only the two of us in a deadly confrontation. One of us would not leave here alive, and I was determined it would not be me. Yet I could not outrun him, and he was so close any attempt to reach for the pistol in my cloak pocket would come to a bad end, with the small double barrels most likely pressed against my head.

  The mists had risen to the clifftop, however, and were beginning to swirl about our feet. Just a bit more and perhaps I might have a chance to dart away, losing myself in their protective cocoon. Time, time, I needed time. “Everyone will know you dragged me from Vanessa’s room,” I told him. “There is no way you can escape being blamed. And for the other murders as well. If you kill me, you will hang. Robert will see to it.”

  “No doubt,” he returned, that twisted smile once again crossing his face. “Which is why neither of us will be seen again.”

  I stared, my legs threatening to turn to jelly. Was he planning to kill me and run off? Or was he speaking of suicide?

  Robert! Where are you?

  “Not a Viking funeral,” he said quite calmly, “but close enough. It’s high tide—we won’t even see the rocks as we fall.”

  “You truly killed all those women?” I said, still fighting for time.

  “And you will make five.” He shrugged. “And if I married Vanessa, she would be six, for sure as sunrise, I would throttle her in the end. And I love her, you know, I always have. So . . .”

  The mists were higher now, filling in the hollows between the cliffs and the house, offering shelter . . . if I could get that far.

  “David, I don’t understand—everyone likes you, admires your fortitude. What on earth happened to turn—”

  “Fuckit, I’m a man! There was only so much abuse I could stand.” His roar almost crushed my will, for I knew what he meant. Not that Vanessa’s volatility was an excuse for murder, but the tragedy of it all brought me to my knees. I sank to the ground, despairing. I had played my hand the best I could, but I had run out of words. Unless . . . bent over as I was, perhaps I could reach my pistol without David—

  A rifle shot shattered the silence. David staggered, slumped to the ground. But even as a surge of relief stabbed through me, he managed to raise his grimly determined face to mine, one hand shooting out to seize my ankle in a vice-like grip. Though blood welled from a wound in his chest, he began a slow crawl toward the edge of the cliff, dragging me behind him. I kicked, I squirmed, I hammered his back, to no avail. Frantically, I twisted my body, attempting to clutch a rock, a handful of grass. Anything. For I knew the rifleman, who must have been hidden in the mist in the hollow on the far side of the road, was unlikely to reach us in time.

  The mists obscured the edge of the cliff and the pounding of my heart drowned out the crash of the surf, but I realized we must be close. David’s strength, and the strength of what could only be called madness, swamped my puny efforts to break free.

  We were going over . . .

  No, we were not!

  I was sliding over the ground on my back, my cloak trailing behind me, but I managed to twist around until I could pull the heavy wool toward me and—yes, there it was!

  Through all those long years with the army, I had never shot a gun at a human being. I thought of Robert and the life we might have had. Of Vanessa who was destined for such a bitter shock. Of four girls whose lives were cut short.

  I took the best aim I could and shot David in the back of the head.

  All movement stopped. I lay there, eyes squeezed shut, gave thanks to God, and offered up a prayer for David as well. Only the ancient Greeks and Shakespeare had imagined such tragedy as this.

  “Penny!” Urgent hands gripped my shoulders, drawing me into Robert’s arms. I don’t know how long we sat there, saying nothing. But after a while he drew us back from the edge of the cliff, and we sat, side by side, watching the mists coat David’s body in a shroud of white. At long last David said, “I don’t suppose he killed my mother and Ridgeway as well?”

  “I don’t believe so,” I told him. He heaved a sigh and levered himself to his feet. “Robert!” I gasped as he approached the body which was so close to the cliff-face one arm dangled over the edge.

  He waved away my protests, then kneeling beside the body, he rolled it into the sea. “Even if the body turns up,” he said, “the wounds will be presumed to come from the rocks.”

  “And if someone questions it?”

  Robert held out his hand to help me up. “Thomas Ridgeway is magistrate, remember?”

  The legalities might be contrived, justice served, but my heart was broken, my confidence along with it. Not our bright, beautiful, ever calm Davy, the light of Vanessa’s life. Clearly, our troubles were far from over.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  We concocted a rather good tale, I thought, Robert and I, beginning with the simple truth—Maud, worried about David’s mood when he swept me out of the house, had gone straight to Robert, who set out to find me. The remainder of our story, I admit, was a flight of fancy. We had left David brooding on the headland, we said. And when he did not return, we suggested it was possible that knowing he was about to lose his position, he had run off to America. Certainly, I assured everyone, I had heard him speak of emigrating.

  This explanation, of course, meant revealing Vanessa’s recovery, which produced such a sensation that only Vanessa and David�
�s family were left to wonder about his disappearance. A state Robert and I agreed was far better than knowing the truth.

  By some miracle the sea did not give up its dead. Robert and I shared the truth only with Lord Hycliffe and Thomas Ridgeway, Senior. Why bring any more anguish to Vanessa or to the Tremaines than David’s mysterious disappearance was already causing? My own grief, however, was acute. Not counting Robert, I had considered David my closest friend. I truly liked him and still found it almost impossible to believe his easy-going nature hid a soulless monster.

  Yet even acknowledging him for what he was could not spare me the horror of his death. At the time I was certain my guilt would haunt me for the rest of my life, but as soldiers must do, I learned to put the past behind me, make it part of a world that would not be lived in again. When the family surprised me with a party for my twenty-first birthday, there was a moment when Kenrick made one of his wickedly dry remarks, and Vanessa and I were both startled in chortling out loud. We looked at each other, startled, and realized we were on our way to recovery at last. Life might not be joyful, but for the first time we could see light where only darkness had been before.

  There was but one last wall to be breached. Admittedly, a wall of stone, well-built and seemingly impregnable. Robert stuck to his vow never to marry. On the night of my party, after everyone else had gone upstairs to bed, I cornered him in the bookroom, where he repeated what he had said to me on numerous occasions over the last few weeks. “My father killed my mother, Penny. Her lover, as well. He has admitted it. My blood is tainted. And do not say, ‘Nonsense!’ in that tone of yours that says I’m a maundering idiot. Look at my sister—in spite of the miracles you’ve wrought, no one can call her stable.”

  “Vanessa’s fault was being spoiled before ever she was ruined by her accident,” I returned in that no-nonsense tone learned at my father’s knee. “By dramatizing her illness to the point of—”