He stepped back from her, and his eyes lost the pleading softness that had made them so hard to resist. “You’re still angry with me.”
She shook her head. “Not angry. Not anymore. Not really. I’m just sad and disappointed. I thought if no one else would champion Uncle Mason, you would. Instead you leave him forever branded a murderer and a thief. It’s not right. I know—”
“You think you know, but people aren’t always what they seem. I was very sure about my father, too.” For a moment he didn’t say anything. “I’m sorry about Mason. Truly I am.” He looked down. “I guess I loved the old boy, too.”
“But he would never have—”
“Look here, Madeline, I love your stubborn loyalty, your belief even in the face of hard evidence, but there has to be a time when you let it go. No matter how lovely the fantasy, we eventually have to grow up and see the truth.”
She released his arm and faced him, her mouth set in a firm line. “And sometimes it’s not the belief that is wrong, just the interpretation of the evidence.”
She turned on her heel and started toward the door, but he grabbed her hand and turned her back to him.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked. “I tried. I wanted to believe he was innocent. I wanted to believe everything you believe. Do you know I even . . .” His mouth turned up in a little smirk. “I even prayed. I even . . .” He swiped the back of his hand over his eyes. “I got down on my knees like a schoolboy and begged God to show me, somehow, if there was some other explanation for all this. If Mason really was the man we all thought for so long that he was. If He was even there listening. And I thought you were my answer.” He grimaced. “I must have looked quite the fool.”
“Drew, no,” she murmured, her eyes brimming with tears, and she squeezed his hand. “You can’t—”
“I can.”
He slipped his hand out of hers and went to the door, opening it to show her out, but she took his hand again.
He stood looking at her, that wounded disappointment in his gray eyes, in every vulnerable line of his face.
The tears spilled down her cheeks, and she reached up to caress his face. “I . . .” She smiled a little. “I think we should make a bargain.”
He laughed half under his breath. “A bargain?”
“You asked God to show you if there was another explanation for all this, if Uncle Mason was innocent.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve asked Him to show me if I was being foolish to believe Uncle Mason wasn’t guilty in the face of all the evidence.”
“And?”
“Well, one of us has to be right. We’ll just have to both pray that He’ll show us which one it is.” Again she stroked his cheek. “But we can’t give up.”
He laughed softly and wrapped her again in his arms. “You will drive me mad, you know that. But it will be the loveliest, most wonderful madness ever to overwhelm a man.”
She couldn’t help herself. She started sobbing against his shoulder. “How can you be so wonderful and so horrible all at the same time?”
“Sorry,” he said. “But you won’t go?”
Again she couldn’t help herself. She started giggling, giggling and crying and clinging to him. “I won’t say I’ll marry you, but I won’t go. Not yet.”
“Darling,” he breathed, and he kissed her once again, sweet at first, but then with more and more intensity, dizzying her with kisses until he finally pulled away from her.
“Perhaps you’d better go, after all,” he said, and her heart dropped.
“You want me to?”
“Just back to your room, darling.” He took an unsteady breath. “You’re far too tempting.”
“And you’re not?” She laughed and touched her fingers to his lips. “I can’t believe we’ve known each other only a few days.”
“Eleven.”
“You’re sweet to keep count.” She touched his lips once more, aching for another taste of them, and then she looked away. “And sweet to not try to take advantage.”
There was a hint of wry wistfulness in his smile. “We’re both a bit too cut up just now to reason clearly, don’t you think? I guess we could both use some comforting, but I don’t want there to be any regrets between us. Not ever.”
Tears again filled her eyes. He was only making her want him more. “I love you for that.”
“I want you to keep on loving me.” He wrapped her again in his arms, warm and tight, and then kissed her hair. “Come, darling. Time you got some sleep.”
After he took Madeline to her room, stealing just one more kiss at her door, Drew walked back down the long hallway, his steps slow and deliberate.
“Which is it?” he whispered. “If you’re there, if you’re listening, give me a clue here.”
“. . . thou hast a name that thou livest, and art dead.”
That one Scripture gnawed at him still. Why wouldn’t it leave him alone?
“She says Mason’s innocent. But the evidence says he’s not. Well, which is it? Which of us is right? If it wasn’t Mason, then who—?”
Something moved at the edge of his vision and then disappeared. Lincoln?
Drew sprinted after the apparition, a figure in black moving soundlessly into the darkness of the hallway that led to the other wing of the house, and with a final burst of speed, Drew caught it by the shoulders and spun it to face him.
“Rushford!”
The old man sagged against the wall with a whimpering cry, and Drew was forced to hold him up.
“Steady on, sir. I am sorry. I thought perhaps I’d nabbed Lincoln at last.”
Rushford was white to the lips, but he managed a faint laugh. “And I thought for certain he had me.” He pressed his hand to his heart, over the brocade bathrobe that was not actually black, merely a deep plum. “Oh, my word, young man, you should make your presence known.”
“Sorry about that. Why in the world didn’t you put on the lights?”
“It’s rather late, you know. I hated to disturb anyone. I thought I’d have a bath to relax and found I was out of soap, so I just nipped downstairs for some.”
“You look as if you’d already bathed,” Drew said, seeing the man’s hair, what he had of it, was wet.
“Yes, well.” Rushford smoothed one hand over his head. “I had already gotten into the bath when I realized about the soap.”
“You should have rung for someone. Shall I call your man?”
“I sent him back home earlier this evening actually. To see to some things for me.” They had reached Rushford’s room by then, and the old man put one hand on the doorknob. “You might like to know I’ll be leaving tomorrow. Time we all got back to something like a normal life.”
“I suppose you’re right, sir. Though you’re more than welcome to stay here as long as you like.”
“You’re very kind, but I’m leaving England.”
“Leaving?”
“The chief inspector said I needn’t stay until Lincoln’s caught. They’ll call me back over when he’s brought to trial.”
“Where will you go?”
“Back to Canada. I put my house up with an estate agent today and booked passage on a ship sailing tomorrow.”
“That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it, sir?”
“Perhaps so, but I want to be somewhere out of Lincoln’s reach. It’s far enough, isn’t it? And the police will keep us safe tonight, won’t they?” He looked at Drew with tired, pleading eyes and grasped his sleeve. “I know I’m a coward. But I just can’t live this way any longer. I have to have some peace, don’t you see?”
“Perfectly understandable.” Drew patted his hand, gently removing it, but Rushford clung to him, his other hand still on the doorknob.
“You wouldn’t . . . you wouldn’t come in and have a look round, would you? I know there’s a constable posted and all that, but Lincoln’s been so elusive.”
Drew took his arm. Rushford’s fears were making him feel a little unsettled himself.
“If he’s in there, we’ll soon have him out.”
Stiffening his spine and his resolve, Drew eased open the door. There was only stillness. “Seems quite empty, sir.”
“Would you mind checking the wardrobe?”
With more indulgent confidence than he felt, Drew flung open the wardrobe. Relieved, he poked about in the meager contents. “Nothing here.”
Rushford’s eyes flickered toward the heaped tangle of sheets and coverlet on the bed. “You don’t suppose . . .”
Drew pulled the coverlet onto the floor, prodded the sheets and, for good measure, looked under the bed. “I’d say you’re safely alone, sir.”
The color returning to his face, Rushford sank into an easy chair. “I daresay I’m an old fool, but with what happened to Parker and all . . .” He put one hand over his face. “I’ve got to get away from all this. My nerves are completely gone.”
Drew poured an inch or so of the brandy from the decanter on the dresser and pressed Rushford’s free hand around it. “Buck up, sir. You’ll be away from here tomorrow. We’ll see to everything here.”
The old man downed the brandy, then grabbed Drew hard by the wrist. “Listen here, if I don’t make it to the morning—”
“Sir, I—”
“Hear me out.” Rushford’s eyes were fever-bright, his face intent. “Lincoln’s eluded everyone so far. He got to Parker even after we knew he might be about the house somewhere. If he gets to me, you’ll be the last. You’ll own Farlinford outright. It’s fairly ruined at this point, but you can build it up again. You’ve enough of your father in you to make a go of it. You do it for him and for his father and grandfather before him. For all the Fartherings.” His expression softened. “And for an old fool who hasn’t anyone else.”
It was deuced awkward, but Drew couldn’t help feeling for the old boy, alone as he was.
“I’ll give it a go. Don’t you worry.” He took a quick look behind the curtains, made sure the window was securely latched, and then went back to Rushford. “You’d best get to bed, sir. Sounds as though you’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”
“Yes, I suppose I have.”
Rushford drained the last drop clinging to the inside of his glass and then stood. He opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, closed it, and then opened it again. “I’m sorry about Parker. I knew Lincoln was a bit of a blackguard, but I never would have thought it of Parker. Never.”
Drew nodded, weary with the thought of revisiting it all again. “Neither would I. I was hoping we’d find out he wasn’t part of it at all, but it seems there’s no getting round it now.”
“No,” Rushford said. “But you’re young yet, Drew. You still have Farlinford. A great many young men have started with less.” He laughed wistfully. “I know I did.”
“Thank you, sir,” Drew replied. “I might do just that. Good night.”
A cleansing midmorning sun flooded the front lawn at Farthering Place, somehow making even old Rushford, with his little kit bag in hand, look steady and robust.
He took a deep breath and let it out. “I shall miss England, young man. Home and all that. But I just can’t stay any longer, you understand.”
“Of course, sir,” Drew said. “Best to put it all behind you for good and all.”
“Oh, and I have something for you. Just the final loose end.”
He tucked his bag under his arm and reached into his coat pocket for a single sheet of paper, folded lengthwise. He handed it to Drew.
“What’s this?” Drew’s smile faded as he scanned the contents. “Sir, you can’t possibly—”
“It seems rather that I can,” Rushford said. “It’s witnessed by your butler and your housekeeper. Perfectly legal and in order. I confirmed it with my solicitor by telephone this morning.”
“But you’re giving me your interest in Farlinford.”
“Yes, I believe I am. Not that there’s much left in it now, of course, but she’s all yours.”
“But, sir, there’s no need for that. I’ll try to get her running again, you needn’t bother about that, but you’ll still have your share. It’s only right.”
Rushford shook his head. “You know the agreement. No director can sell his interest in the company except to the other directors. That would be only you now, my boy. And the value of my half would hardly buy me tea and toast anymore.” He chuckled. “Look at me. Since I signed that little paper, I’m a new man. I’m off to a new life and leaving all my worries behind me. You wouldn’t begrudge me that, now, would you?”
“Certainly not, sir. I can’t say I was expecting this, but if it’s what you want . . .”
“You’ll be doing me a great favor.” Rushford took Drew’s hand and shook it heartily. “Now, I must be off before my ship leaves without me. Goodbye, young Farthering. Make us proud.”
With a nod of farewell, Rushford shuffled down the steps, carrying his kit bag in both arms now, like a boy off to camp.
Min was holding the door to the black sedan, his face as inscrutable as ever. “May I take your bag, sir?”
Rushford waved him away, scowling slightly, and climbed into the back seat.
Drew followed him to the car. “Don’t you worry about Lincoln. The police will run him to ground in time. I still can’t imagine where he could be, but they’ve checked everywhere, even that little cottage of Mrs. Chapman’s. The police say she has a tenant, but it’s some fellow called Barker come after trout. Deuced shame, too. It would have been a nice, convenient place for Lincoln to keep himself.”
“I didn’t know there was a place as close as that. I wish you hadn’t mentioned him again. That boat cannot leave too soon for me.” Rushford mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and then managed a smile. “Here, now. Mustn’t give way, eh? That blackguard is likely miles away and daren’t show his face by day.”
“That’s the ticket, sir.”
“Well, best of luck to you, young man. Drive on, Min.”
Min ducked his head and closed the rear door. Then, with one hard look at Drew, he got into the front seat. In another moment, the sedan was out of sight.
Madeline came out of the house in time to wave after it, and then she walked down the steps. “What now?”
“You’ll never believe it,” Drew said. “He’s signed all of Farlinford over to me.” He showed her the paper Rushford had given him. “It will take some doing, but I think I’ll try to make a go of it. Maybe I can make something of myself, after all.”
“Uncle Mason would have liked that,” Madeline said. “He always wanted you to come into business with him. He was very fond of you, you know.”
She knew just how to sting his conscience. Just a little wistfulness in the eyes, a sigh in the voice.
“All right.” Drew let the breath seep out of his lungs like the air from a punctured tire, and then he led her back into the parlor. Nick came trailing in after them.
“We’ll start at the beginning once again.” Drew forced himself to sound resolute and hopeful. “What evidence do we have that doesn’t point to Mason and Lincoln being behind it all?”
“What about Mr. Peterson?” Madeline asked. “From the very first, he had access to the fireworks and the gun. Suppose his whole story about his daughter is a lie and he and she both are in it with Lincoln? He could be hiding Lincoln in his house right now.”
Drew shook his head. “It won’t work. I couldn’t help wondering that myself and had someone from my solicitor’s look into it for me. She was where Peterson said she was, in an even more wretched condition than he knew. We’ve got her in a sanatorium now, and when she’s ready, she’s to come back home.”
“So,” Nick said, “we could suspect her or her father of killing Lincoln, but it’s not bally likely they’d be helping him. No.”
Drew spent a moment drumming his fingers on the arm of the overstuffed chair. “The fingerprints,” he said finally. “Or lack thereof.” He narrowed his eyes, thinking. “Remember what Jimmy said? It couldn’t hav
e been more thorough if they had done it themselves.”
“But why would they do it themselves? I mean, Lincoln, certainly, if he wanted to disappear. But why would Clarke? What would he have been thinking?”
The ringing of the telephone halted the conversation, and in a moment Dennison appeared at the parlor door. “You’re wanted on the telephone, sir.”
“Who is it, Denny?”
“He didn’t give his name, sir. An American gentleman, if I’m not mistaken.”
Drew leapt to his feet and hurried into the study, with Nick and Madeline on his heels.
“Hello?”
“Check out the cottage. Mrs. Chapman’s. He’s there. They’re getting away.”
“Who’s there? Who is this?”
The line went dead.
“Who was that?” Madeline asked. “What did he say?”
“Hello? Hello?” Drew clicked the switch hook. “Hello, operator? Ring Mrs. Chapman at Lilac Cottage. No, I don’t know the number. Hurry, please.”
“Who was it?” Madeline pressed.
“That American. The same one I overheard before. He said— Hello, Mrs. Chapman?”
“This is Mrs. Chapman.” The woman’s voice was quavery with age, but pleasantly chipper. “Who’s calling, please?”
“Drew Farthering here. From up at Farthering Place. I was wondering if I could ask you about the chap you have staying at your cottage.”
“Mr. Barker? The police have already asked about him, you know. Perfectly nice young man from Ipswich.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that. He doesn’t happen to be a tall blond fellow with a mustache, does he?”
“You mean like that Mr. Lincoln they’re looking for. Oh, no, that couldn’t be Mr. Barker. He’s dark, you know, and clean-shaven.”
Drew sighed. “I see.”
“The police showed me a photograph of the man they want. My young man here is nothing like him, especially in the chin. Dimpled on one side and all.”
Drew clutched the receiver so hard, he feared it would break. “He doesn’t happen to have a little scar over his upper lip, does he?”
Rules of Murder Page 27