“He reminds me for all the world of my old Latin professor, Mr. Chambers. It’s hard to say which of them is more like a stoat.”
That made her laugh, but the laughter quickly turned to tears.
For her sake, for his own, he hadn’t wanted things to turn out as they had. He’d wanted desperately to believe there was some other explanation for everything that had happened, but there wasn’t one. There just wasn’t.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, holding her close. He kissed her hair and then her cheek. “So, so sorry.”
“It’s not right,” she sobbed. “It’s not right. He couldn’t have done it. He just couldn’t.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Stop saying you’re sorry!” She shoved herself away from him, her periwinkle eyes flashing behind the tears. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this what you were trying to prove all along?”
“Prove?” He shook his head. “I wasn’t trying to prove anything except the truth.”
“All of this . . .” She made a sweeping gesture, encompassing everything that had happened that day. “This isn’t the truth. Not if you think it means Uncle Mason was behind everything.”
He took a deep breath. “Then what does it mean? Who is behind it all?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But it wasn’t Uncle Mason.”
“What else explains everything? Who else was in a position to carry this off as it was? Who else would have a reason to kill Constance and rob Farlinford?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t know why you would want him to be guilty.”
“I never—”
“You’re all in such a hurry to close this case, to fit it into your neat little explanation, you don’t even look at all the possibilities. I thought you wanted to find the truth.”
“I do, I just . . .” He could see that nothing he could possibly say at this point would soothe her pain, so he let a few seconds pass in silence. “What would you like me to do?”
“Find out the truth.”
Sudden tears filled her eyes, and she ran out of the library.
Bewildered, he let her go.
Drew watched Madeline as she stood at the head of the grave, pale and still, her slender shoulders slumped, her eyes shadowed and empty. He wished her friends, Miss Holland and even that Brower girl, were here with her. She could probably do with a touch of the familiar just now, a touch of home. But she had refused to send a message telling them what had happened to her uncle. And when they sent her a telegram saying they had heard the news, she had fired back a reply telling them not to come, that she’d rather they finished their tour. So now she was alone.
It had been a tense three days since Mason’s death. The police continued their search for Lincoln without the slightest progress, and their investigation of Mason’s private papers was equally fruitless except for some personal memos, a jumbled stack of formulae and notes to do with petroleum processing that had unquestionably once filled the empty drawer in McCutcheon’s filing cabinet. It wasn’t enough to close the case, of course, but it made up the vicar’s mind irrevocably. Mason was not to be buried next to Constance in the churchyard.
The Reverend Mr. Bartlett was very kind and understanding regarding Madeline’s pleas, but he was firm. He could not, in the face of the strong objections of his parishioners and of his own conscience, allow a murderer to be buried in consecrated ground at the side of the woman he had murdered. The vicar was good enough to agree to a quiet service at a burial at Farthering Place, and it was all he could do under the circumstances. Considering that most people thought Mason should have been buried in the prison graveyard after being hanged, it was quite a kindness. Perhaps one day Madeline would appreciate it.
Drew ached to stand there beside her, to hold her gloved hand, to slip his arm around her and draw her close, but no doubt she would rebuff him. He had failed her beloved uncle. It wasn’t rational, but there it was. If only there was some way yet to prove Mason’s innocence. Drew wanted to believe. He did. Just as he wanted to believe the vicar’s words, the words he’d last heard too short a time ago.
“In sure and certain hope of the resurrection unto eternal life . . .”
He saw Madeline’s eyes close, and a single tear slipped down the sweet curve of her cheek, only to be lost in the blackness of her dress. But when she opened her eyes, there was again that expression of peace he’d seen at Constance’s funeral, as if her hope truly was sure and certain.
Their eyes met, and she immediately looked down. Drew sighed. She was still angry. If nothing else was, that at least was sure and certain.
Soon fragrant lilies and clods of earth were laid over the casket and the funeral was over. Besides Madeline and Drew, only a handful of mourners had come to the little grove of willows that was Mason’s final resting place: Nick, Denny, Mrs. Devon, Mason’s man Plumfield, old Peterson and his missus, and a few others of the staff.
Peterson stopped briefly, hat in hand. “I don’t believe it of him, Mr. Drew, sir. I just don’t.”
“I know, Mr. Peterson. This has come as quite a shock to all of us.”
“There’s something else you ought to know, sir. Someone’s taken my wheelbarrow and my millstone. Out of the shed, mind you, and took pains to cover his tracks.”
Drew sighed. “Anything else missing?”
“Not as I seen, sir, though I can’t think what a murderer would want with them.”
“Perhaps it’s nothing to do with Lincoln and all the rest.”
“That may be, sir.” Peterson did not look convinced. “Just thought you’d better know.”
“Yes, certainly. Thank you, Mr. Peterson.”
“Respects to the family, sir.” Peterson replaced his hat, gave the brim a tug, and then was gone.
A wheelbarrow and a millstone. The wheelbarrow to carry the millstone, like as not, but the millstone itself? Drew rubbed his eyes. He didn’t know why anyone would steal those things. He didn’t want to think of it anymore.
As the rest of the mourners filed past on their way back to the house, Drew acknowledged the condolences as graciously as he could manage, but he did not want their comfort. He wanted the comfort of soothing the heart he had so unwillingly broken.
“Talk to her,” Nick hissed beside him.
“I can’t,” Drew replied through clenched teeth. “She won’t— Thank you, Mrs. Devon. Yes, quite a shock to us all. Tea would be much appreciated, thank you.” He glared at Nick over the woman’s shoulder.
“Why not?” Nick asked once she was gone.
Drew glanced once more toward the graveside. Madeline was still there, alone now, with her head bowed and her hands clasped together and her black veil quivering in the breeze.
“She wants to be alone,” he said, looking away. “And if she did want someone, it wouldn’t be me.”
“Fine,” Nick said. “Then I’ll talk to her.”
“Nick—”
But Nick had already loped over to the grave. In another moment he was back. “She’d like to see you, if you don’t mind.”
Drew looked toward her once more. She had drawn her veil over her face now, so it was hard to read her expression, especially from where he stood.
Nick gave him a little shove. “Go on.”
Finally, Drew set off through the wet grass. She didn’t look up when he approached her.
He cleared his throat, but still she did not acknowledge him. “Madeline?”
“I’m sorry.”
Her voice was only a whisper, and he leaned down a bit, wanting to catch her words and see her face. “What did you say?”
“I know it wasn’t your fault.” She lifted her eyes to his in remorseful appeal. “I didn’t stop to think that you might be grieving, too. And I do want to know the truth. Whatever it is.”
He took her hand. “I thought you would.”
She nodded, and her hand tightened on his. “But I still don’t think Uncle Mason was a thief. Or a murderer.”
He resisted the temptation to go over all the evidence once again. “I know you don’t.”
She managed a subdued smile. “What are you going to do now?”
“Don’t know,” he admitted. “See if old Rushford and I can get Farlinford back on her feet, I expect.”
“I mean about the investigation.”
“Birdsong says he’s closing it, except to still try to track down Lincoln. They’re satisfied with the conclusions they’ve drawn.”
She slid her hand out of his. “I’m not satisfied.”
“I realize that. I didn’t expect you would be.”
“You knew him.”
He knit his brow, puzzled. “Yes?”
“How can you leave things this way?”
“The evidence—”
“There are too many things that don’t fit. Who was the American on the phone? Why would Uncle Mason send Mr. Rushford to the office to be robbed if the papers he wanted were already here in his desk? Why . . .” She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes and took a quavering breath. “I’m sorry. I do know it’s not your fault. He wasn’t your uncle. Or your father.”
He took her arm to lead her away from the grave, away from Mack and Bobby in their earth-stained work clothes standing at the edge of the trees, shovels ready.
“It’s all right,” he soothed. “We can talk about it at home, if you like. You’ll feel better with a nice cup of tea and some of Mrs. Devon’s biscuits.”
But when he took her home, they didn’t talk about it. She sat mutely over her tea, taking no more than a sip or two before returning to her room.
She didn’t come down to dinner, so Drew’s only company was Nick. The good fellow made a valiant attempt to keep a cheerful conversation going, but getting little more than a word or two from Drew in response, he lapsed into uncomfortable silence by the end of the second course. As soon as the meal was over, Drew excused himself and headed upstairs. It was getting late, anyway. A hot bath and a sound night’s sleep would help clear his thinking, he was certain.
“You knew him.”
He thought of Madeline’s words and the bewildered pain in her eyes as she said them.
“You knew him.”
He sent Denny away and ran his own bath, laid out his own pajamas, but the activity did not chase away the picture of her. He had known Mason. He’d liked him, too. But was it rational to believe his innocence in spite of all the evidence to the contrary?
Stubborn, that’s what she was.
“You knew him,” he heard again, and closing his eyes he immersed himself in the bath water.
Still he saw her face, her pleading eyes. And he saw Mason. Kind, gentle Mason. Embezzling, scheming, murdering Mason.
“You knew him.”
“Fine,” he spat once he was forced to come up for air. “God, what does she want from me?”
He stopped himself. Before, he might have used that name thoughtlessly, as little more than an expression of frustration. But now, alone with nothing but the sound of the water that dripped from his hair, he knew it was something more. He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead on them. “God,” he whispered, “what do you want from me?”
“. . . thou hast a name that thou livest, and art dead.”
It wasn’t someone else. It was Drew himself. Deep inside him, inside the hollow meaninglessness, he knew it. No wonder the words wouldn’t leave him alone.
“. . . thou hast a name that thou livest, and art dead.”
He ought to be on his knees. Wasn’t that how the humble supplicant was best received?
He stood and let the water run off him and back into the tub, and then he sloshed to the edge of the bath and stepped out onto the chilly floor. As naked and wet as when he had come into the world, he knelt there on the black-and-white tiles and bowed his head.
“God, help me. Show me something. Anything. I want to believe he was innocent. I want to believe you’re there. I want to believe there’s something right in the world. But how do I believe something I don’t believe?” He laughed, a silent, convulsive little laugh from somewhere painful inside himself. “I suppose I must believe you’re there, mustn’t I? I’m praying to you.”
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and twined his fingers into his still-dripping hair.
“I don’t exactly know what to say or what you want. I don’t suppose I could say anything you don’t already know. I only . . .” He ducked his head, feeling the hot sting of tears, fighting them, and then he looked up again.
“. . . thou hast a name that thou livest, and art dead.”
“Don’t leave me this way,” he whispered. Then he turned his face up. “I have it on very good authority that you accept all comers, no matter how slowly they come. Provided, of course, they do come. I hope it doesn’t matter if they come to you because there’s just nowhere else to turn.”
Hadn’t even the disciples in the presence of the Lord himself said there was nowhere else to go for the words of life? Drew took a hard breath and lowered his head again.
“Dominus illuminatio mea,” he said, and a tear slipped down his cheek, only to be swallowed up by the widening puddle that surrounded him. “Oh, God, be my light. Show me something, anything to cling to. Lord Jesus—”
He lifted his head, abruptly breaking the prayer. There was a tapping at his door. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed one of the thick towels that had been warming at the radiator. He scrubbed the water from his face, and then, wrapping the towel around his hips, he hurried to the door.
“Yes? Who is it?”
“It’s me.” She hesitated for a moment. “It’s Madeline.”
“Madeline!” He reached for the doorknob and then stopped himself. “Is everything all right?”
“I need to talk to you.” Her voice was soft and urgent.
“Uh, I’ll just be a moment.”
He snatched the towel from around his hips and used it to blot the water from his hair. He then toweled off his arms and legs and chest. Once he had thrown on his robe and thrust his feet into his slippers, he opened the door.
“Oh, I didn’t . . .” Madeline felt the heat rise in her face. “I was hoping you hadn’t gone to bed already.”
“Bath, actually,” he said with a pale imitation of his usual smile, and she wished he could have somehow been in his typical breezy mood. It would make everything else so much easier.
“I suppose I should wait until tomorrow.”
“If you’d like,” he said. “It would be a bit more conventional. Or if you’d rather, you can wait just a bit in my study while I put on something a little more suited for a lady’s company.”
She nodded, and he opened the door wide enough to admit her. In another moment he had her settled on the tufted settee under his window.
“I’d ring for some coffee or something, but no use scandalizing Denny this time of the night.”
“I don’t want any coffee.” She shouldn’t have come. It would be too easy now to lose her resolve, to say and do things she didn’t mean or at least that she shouldn’t mean. “I’ll just wait for you.”
He smiled again. “Won’t be a tick.”
In less than five minutes he returned to her, wearing dark trousers and a white shirt, socks but no shoes. He hadn’t taken the time to put in cuff links or button his shirt at the neck. He hadn’t taken much time to dry himself either, judging by the way his thin shirt clung to his back and how it had turned transparent enough in places to reveal the undershirt beneath.
He patted his slicked-back hair and sat beside her. “Bit of an improvement, what?”
“I sort of liked it the way it was,” she admitted.
“Anything to please,” he said, and with both hands he ruffled his hair into a spiky mess. “Better?”
She laughed, but she couldn’t help the tears that sprang to her eyes.
He took her hand, cradling it in both of his. “What is it?”
“I’
m going home.”
“But I don’t want you to go.”
He said it as if that should be enough, and for a moment it was. No, she’d have to be strong now. She’d have to be strong.
“I don’t want you to go,” he said again, and he brought her hand to his lips.
How could she resist those lips and those eyes? She tried to pull away, but he clung to her hand. Then he pulled her into his arms.
“I need you,” he breathed, and his breath was warm against her neck. “I need you as surely as I need food and drink and sleep to sustain my life. Truly. Madeline, don’t go.”
She hesitated, afraid. What men would say in the cold loneliness of night was often very different from what they claim to have said come morning. She reminded herself that deceit could come as easily from handsome lips as plain ones and tried once more to pull away from him.
Abruptly he knelt before her and took her hand once more. “Marry me, Madeline. I love you terribly.”
She shook her head. “You can’t mean that. We barely know each other. We—”
“I mean it. I know it’s insane, but I also know what I feel.” He pressed her hand with a passionate kiss. “I need you. I love you.”
Her heart pounded, but she knew what she had to do. She managed an indulgent, half-cynical smile, and brought his hand to her heart. “And I love you.” Her voice was husky and heavily accented, another imitation of Garbo. “Our souls are but two halves of one whole.”
He took his hand from her and got to his feet. “It’s cruel to tease.”
His voice was soft and wounded. Ashamed, she stood and touched his cheek. “I only said that because . . .” She closed her eyes to keep them from spilling over tears. They were melting the last bit of her resolve. “I should never have said it, but I meant it truly. Every bit of it.” She opened her eyes to see an eager, answering light in his own.
“You did?”
With a shy little nod, she ducked her head against his shoulder, breathing in the clean scent of him, of sun-dried linen and fresh soap.
He kissed her lips, tender and sweet, and then held her wrapped in his arms.
“I love you,” she whispered, leaning up to kiss the corner of his jaw. “But I have to go.”
Rules of Murder Page 26