Windswept

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Quinley began the interrogation. “Why didn’t you use your real name when you approached his lordship?”

  Good question. Evan had wondered that, as well.

  “Lady Mansfield refused to sell the chalice to me,” Catrin said, “so I was afraid that if I told her son my real name, he’d tell his mother.”

  That made perfect sense. Justin’s mother was miserly. Although the chalice probably hadn’t mattered a whit to her, once she’d learned that someone else wanted it, her first instinct had no doubt been to pray she could find an even better buyer. Evan had to admire Catrin’s resourcefulness in using her appellation of the Lady of the Mists to entice Justin to meet her. It had obviously worked.

  As she answered Quinley’s questions about the chalice, Evan’s spirits sank. She told Quinley the same things she’d told him when she’d thought she could trust him. She even told the investigator about the curse and why she’d wanted the chalice.

  Although Evan had already decided that Catrin couldn’t be guilty, it still pained him to hear how blameless she was, for it made his subterfuge with her even more unconscionable. He could easily remember their last night together: how she’d told him about the chalice in such innocence and revealed her belief in the curse, which she’d apparently told no one else about but Morys. Evan had been given the chance to tell her the truth about his own motives then, but hadn’t.

  The knot in his stomach grew hard as stone. She would never forgive him. And he couldn’t bear that.

  Quinley licked his pencil. “So you never met with Lord Mansfield?”

  “Sadly, no.” Her voice shook as she met the investigator’s too-keen gaze.

  She was suffering, and she wouldn’t even let Evan comfort her.

  Quinley flipped through his notebook. “Nothing I’ve learned so far either proves or disproves your assertion, Mrs. Price. The innkeeper and his wife admit to having directed you to the room where you were to meet his lordship, but they never saw Lord Mansfield enter.”

  The investigator shot her a veiled glance. “Of course, if Lord Mansfield arranged for the private room as you told me, then he would have known which room to go to, and he wouldn’t have needed to make his presence known.”

  “Yes,” Evan put in, “but surely someone would have seen him and remarked upon it.”

  “Denizens of such places tend to mind their own business, sir.” Quinley stared at Evan as if trying to assess his interest. Then he returned his attention to Catrin. “I’d like to know why you left London without seeking to discover why Lord Mansfield hadn’t kept his appointment with you.”

  Catrin colored. “I didn’t need to discover it. The next morning the murder was in all the papers, and I read about it.”

  Quinley’s eyebrow quirked up. “Didn’t you consider that you had information of relevance to solving his murder?”

  “I did. But I hadn’t seen anything. I didn’t know anything.” Her voice lowered. “And to be truthful, I was afraid to come forward. I didn’t know if anyone knew about our meeting, and I thought it best to leave it that way. I suppose that sounds awful, but it’s the truth.”

  Those few words explained so much. Alone in an unfamiliar city, Catrin had probably been terrified at the thought of going to a constable, especially when she had no new insights to offer.

  But while her words increased Evan’s feelings of guilt, they apparently piqued Quinley’s interest. “I suppose you couldn’t have known that Lord Mansfield carried the last of your letters in his coat pocket. That is, unless you had something to do with the removal of the letter.”

  The look of surprise on Catrin’s face was so genuine that Evan groaned. His poor darling didn’t even know what Quinley was talking about, which only further confirmed her innocence.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “It’s simple, madam. When Lord Mansfield left his club, after showing your letter to Mr. Newcome here, he proceeded straight to the inn. We can only assume he had the letter on him when he was murdered. Yet none was found on him. I must admit I can see no reason for thieves to take it, whereas I can see any number of reasons for you to do so.”

  “You mean, only one reason, don’t you?” Catrin’s voice sounded hollow. “That I murdered him and wanted to hide the evidence of our meeting.”

  Quinley seemed surprised by her straightforward assessment. “That could be one interpretation of the events, yes.”

  When the blood drained from Catrin’s face, Evan’s temper flared. “This is absurd! The letter could have fallen out in the scuffle, or Justin might have left it in his carriage.”

  “He didn’t take a carriage,” Quinley said. “As you may recall, he walked.”

  “Still, that doesn’t prove anything,” Evan bit out.

  “You seemed to think at one time that it did,” Quinley said pointedly.

  Evan groaned, especially when he noticed Catrin grow even more ashen. He’d started all this, and God help him, he wished he hadn’t. If he’d known she’d turn out to be a sweet, shy lady instead of the greedy schemer he’d thought . . .

  Somehow he had to get Catrin out of this mess. The investigator’s evidence against her was flimsy at best.

  Quinley leaned forward. “Have you anything to say, Mrs. Price?” His voice was deceptively gentle. “Any idea where the letter might have gotten to?”

  She shook her head. “I wrote the letter, Mr. Quinley, but that’s all.”

  “And you know nothing about what happened to Lord Mansfield the night you were to meet with him?”

  “No!” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “But I am sorry he was murdered.”

  With grim satisfaction, Evan noted Quinley’s discomfort. The man wasn’t blind. Obviously, he was beginning to realize that Catrin Price wasn’t the sort of woman to arrange a man’s murder. Still, would that be enough? Quinley had no evidence against her, but that didn’t always matter in English courts.

  A rumbling sound came from down the pockmarked road, and a carriage hastened toward them. Evan knew it was Catrin’s because of the man whose head was stuck out the window. Her watchdog, Bos.

  Catrin rose as the carriage halted.

  Bos leapt out. “I have come to fetch you home, madam. There’s an emergency, I’m afraid.”

  Alarm suffused Catrin’s face. “What kind of emergency?”

  “The kind only you can deal with. I would rather not speak of it here.”

  For once, Evan was pleased Bos took his responsibilities so seriously, since the “emergency” was clearly a way to get Catrin out of Quinley’s clutches. When the investigator had gone to Plas Niwl, Bos must have been alerted to the fact that a stranger was causing trouble for his mistress. It didn’t surprise Evan that the butler had taken it upon himself to rescue Catrin.

  But Catrin was apparently oblivious to Bos’s ploy. “We’ll have to tether Little Boy to the back of the carriage. He can’t tolerate a rider just now.”

  “There’s no time for that,” Bos said. “I shall send a groom back for him.”

  Turning to Quinley, Catrin asked, “May I go now, sir? I’ve told you everything you wish to know. And as you see, I have pressing duties at my estate.”

  “Yes, you may go.” When she murmured a quick “thank you” and headed for the carriage, Quinley called out, “But I may think of other things I need to ask. You will be at home, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” she said as Bos helped her into the carriage. She stuck her head out the window. “Rest assured, Mr. Quinley, I’m willing to help you in any way I can.” Then, without sparing even a glance for Evan, she told the coachman to go, and they were off in a cloud of dust.

  With mixed emotions, Evan watched her carriage depart. On one hand, he was pleased to see her escape Quinley’s questioning. On the other, she was once more inaccessible, surrounded by her servants and her fears.

  He didn’t realize how much his feelings showed until Quinley said in an acid tone, “Next time, sir, you should leave the inve
stigating to professionals.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Evan snapped.

  “That you’re obviously inexperienced at eliciting the truth from an unwilling subject, especially a pretty widow.”

  Evan gritted his teeth. “I came here as convinced as you that she’d had something to do with the murder. But only a fool could learn what I have and persist in believing her guilty.”

  “And what have you learned?” Quinley drew a pipe from his pocket and began filling it. “Or have you gone over so fully to the young woman’s side that you aren’t willing to say?”

  Evan was rapidly losing patience. “I’ll tell you whatever you wish to know, but none of it paints her guilty.” He drew a deep breath. “First of all, she is indeed shy, enough to be afraid to face a magistrate.”

  Quinley lighted his pipe with a nonchalant air. “Yet that ‘very shy’ woman traveled alone to a strange city and agreed to meet a strange man in an inn without knowing a single thing about his character.”

  “Because she wanted the chalice very badly. She truly believes in that curse. She even refused to marry the local schoolmaster because she thinks marriage to her is a death sentence. You should talk to him. He’s thoroughly convinced of her belief in it. As am I.”

  Quinley regarded Evan with narrowed eyes. “You’re saying she was so desperate for that chalice she’d have swallowed her innate shyness to obtain it.”

  “Not desperate enough to have a man murdered.”

  “What if she was unable to meet Lord Mansfield’s price? I began my questioning this morning in Llanddeusant and discovered that she recently sold a painting for a hundred pounds, probably to ensure she could purchase the chalice. Yet that is only half of what she offered Lord Mansfield. What if she couldn’t raise the other half? What if he’d refused to sell it to her for less, so she had it stolen?”

  Evan rolled his eyes. “Even if she’s lying and her meeting with him went as you say, she could hardly have arranged to have footpads attack him between the time he left the inn and the time he reached the alley down the street. And surely you don’t believe she did the deed herself.”

  “Of course not. But we have no idea how long Lord Mansfield remained in the inn before he ventured into the street. Nor do we know if Mrs. Price had anyone with her. She might have brought two companions along for the very purpose of relieving Lord Mansfield of the chalice if he didn’t agree to her price.”

  Uttering a frustrated sigh, Evan stared off down the road. “Then why kill him? Why not just have him robbed?”

  “Because he would know who’d done it.”

  He tried to imagine Catrin hiring footpads and stationing them outside the inn so they could accost Lord Mansfield—or not—according to her signal. The idea was ludicrous. It wasn’t in her character. He knew it, and any number of people in Llanddeusant could attest to it.

  Of course, there were the few who would claim she cast spells and created havoc, people like her father-in-law. He could only hope Quinley was too good an investigator to listen to such hogwash.

  Then it occurred to him that he had evidence in Catrin’s favor. “Before you arrived, Catrin told me about the chalice and her trip to London to acquire it. If she’d murdered Justin, why would she have told me, a stranger, about her attempts?”

  Mr. Quinley’s drew deeply on his pipe. “That is indeed curious. I take it she didn’t know of your part in the investigation?”

  “No. She believed me when I said I was in Llanddeusant doing research.” Evan leaned forward. “And consider this—her stories to you and to me were the same, yet when she told me of it she didn’t know who I was. If she’d acquired it, why not say so while she was being so open?” Evan smiled in triumph. “Because she doesn’t have the chalice. Only the innocent are open about their actions.”

  “Actually, that’s not true,” Mr. Quinley said with a puff on his pipe. “Guilty men—and women—often feel compelled to confess. Their dark deeds eat at them until they spill out the truth at unwarranted moments. We catch many a criminal because of an unwise word spoken to friends.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, she’s not a criminal. Surely you could tell that.” When Quinley shrugged, Evan’s exasperation turned to fear for Catrin. “So what will you do now?”

  “I’ve done all I can, since I have no hard evidence against her. But I shall report my findings to Lady Mansfield and the constable in London. If they choose to pursue the matter further, they may. In the meantime, I shall spend the rest of the day questioning the townspeople of Llanddeusant before I leave on the morrow.”

  “What do those you’ve already questioned say?”

  “A few claim she’s a witch. I suppose such nonsense is to be expected in Wales.” He shot Evan an arch glance. “But most hold the woman in high regard, probably because she lends her assistance to charitable institutions.”

  Evan hid his relief. “Does that count for anything with you?”

  A puff of smoke escaped Quinley’s lips. “Of course. It will go in my report with everything else, including your observations. I’m merely trying to get at the truth. And unlike you, I’m not easily swayed by soft words and sweet looks.”

  Evan ignored the insult. “Just be sure you do get at the truth. Because if you hound Mrs. Price to jail on the basis of nothing but a few conjectures, I’ll find a way to prove your incompetence. Though that may not sound like much of a threat, I do have friends in positions of power. More than you, no doubt.”

  Quinley didn’t even bat an eyelash. “You’ll do what you feel you must. But if I were you, sir, I’d hesitate to place my trust in even a woman of Mrs. Price’s standing. Women are natural deceivers. Remember, ’twas sweet-faced Eve who tempted Adam to sin . . . and Adam’s lust brought about the downfall of man.”

  Evan snorted. “As I recall, the serpent tempted Eve first, and he was decidedly male. And if God hadn’t wanted Adam to lust, why did He create Eve in the first place?”

  That bit of unorthodox theology must have taken Quinley aback, since he said not a word as Evan stalked off for his horse. But Evan could feel the man’s gaze on him, and much as he hated to acknowledge it, he knew he should heed Quinley’s cautious words.

  Catrin had taken hold of him. It frightened him how badly he wanted her, and how quickly he’d come to believe her version of what had happened in London. Yet he couldn’t help but think her innocent, for to think anything else meant forsaking his instincts, which told him she was falsely accused.

  He ought to leave her alone. He’d already hurt her too much. He would never convince her that everything he’d said to her wasn’t a lie.

  But a glance at Catrin’s pony decided him. He must see her again, convince her that he believed in her. Though he feared that might prove even more difficult than convincing the investigator of her innocence.

  11

  Rain drummed against the window in Catrin’s study. She watched the fat drops slide, and wished they could wash her traitorous thoughts away.

  No matter how much she told herself she was well rid of Evan, soft thoughts of him intruded. He’d come to her defense so gallantly that night at the wedding. He’d given both Sir Huw and David a piece of his mind, and then he’d comforted her with the tenderness of a lover. He’d kissed and fondled her and offered to make love to her. Had that all been a sham? Or was it as he’d tried to tell her this ­afternoon—that things were not as they seemed?

  She pressed her head to the glass. What was she to do? How could she drive him from her mind?

  With a sigh, she went to open the secret compartment and stare at the chalice. Had gaining it been worth it? This afternoon’s discussion had reminded her of how high that cost had been. Lady Mansfield had lost a son. Evan had lost a friend. She’d been lied to and manipulated and—

  A knock at the door drew her from her thoughts. “Yes?”

  “May I have a word with you, madam?”

  Dear, sweet Bos. “Come in,” she called out as she cl
osed the compartment.

  Bos came in looking uncomfortable. “I am sorry to disturb you, madam, but we have a problem with Mr. Newcome.”

  In the height of her anger, she’d told Bos everything about her interview with Mr. Quinley, including Evan’s betrayal. To Bos’s credit, he hadn’t said, “I told you so,” but he’d been as irate as she.

  “What about him?”

  “He wishes to see you, I’m afraid.”

  His words shattered all her attempts at calm. “He’s here? Downstairs?”

  The merest raise of his eyebrows demonstrated Bos’s surprise. “Not downstairs. Did you think I would allow the man entrance into the house after what he did to you?”

  She tried to hide her disappointment. “Oh, I see. You sent him away. That was the right thing to do, of course.”

  Bos’s lips tightened. “I attempted to send him away, madam, but he refused to leave. That is why we have a problem.”

  As it dawned on her what he was trying to tell her, she ran for the window. “You mean he’s sitting outside in the rain?” She rubbed away the condensation on the window and peered out, but it was too dark and the rain too heavy to see much.

  “Precisely. I had assumed that the mountebank would leave when the storm worsened, but he is still rather stubbornly sitting on the entrance steps.”

  “How long has he been there?”

  “Nearly two hours. He says he will not leave until he is allowed to converse with you.”

  Two hours! Lightning tore across the sky, and she jumped. “We can’t leave him out there. It’s dangerous! He might be struck by lightning!”

  “One can only hope,” Bos said dryly.

  “Bos!” She lifted her skirts and strode to the door.

  “You must admit it would solve your difficulties if Mr. Newcome were to . . . shall we say . . . expire of natural circumstances.”

  She circled around Bos when he tried to block her path. “Oh yes, that would certainly help. Then Mr. Quinley could blame me for two deaths.”